


Divine Misconceptions

by jessthereckless



Series: It's Not The End Of The World, Dear [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is So Done (Good Omens), Body Horror, Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Established Relationship, F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Food Porn, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Plot Twists, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, References to Drugs, TFW Sister Mary Loquacious is sick of your shit, Unplanned Pregnancy, Wedding Fluff, Weird Biology, angelic vasectomies, angry needlepoint, demonic anxiety dreams, eldritch service topping, fart jokes, how is demon babby formed?, is it mpreg? idk, just because, kicking Gabriel around some more, soupy sex words, sweary angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-11-22 12:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 80,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessthereckless/pseuds/jessthereckless
Summary: After the apocalypse that wasn't, Crowley and Aziraphale always knew that sooner or later Heaven, Hell or both of them would come after them.So when the Archangel Michael comes sniffing around the pair, it's not exactly a surprise. It's just that the timing couldn't be worse, because she catches them at a moment when Aziraphale's frustrated creative impulses appear to have plunged them into their most ridiculous predicament yet.Resurrections, misconceptions, startled Satanic nuns, eldritch abominations and vacuum cleaner abuse - it's all going on and it's about to get messy, gassy and prone to disastrous decision making. And that's just Crowley.





	1. A Taste of Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale experiences boredom for the first time in over six thousand years. And finds it fascinating. Meanwhile Crowley finally gets the hang of eldritch service topping and figures out a way to adminster a long overdue temptation.

Like most places that contained large numbers of books, Aziraphale’s bookshop had a complicated relationship with the laws of time and space. Sometimes it seemed as though it could sprout new librarinthine passageways at will, narrow spaces opening up between the shelves and leading him down a new row entirely filled with German translations of late 1990s erotic romance novels. 

While a lot of this was perfectly normal behaviour for a second hand book shop owned by a celestial being and recently restored by a well meaning young Antichrist, Aziraphale was acutely conscious of his own influence. 

He had changed a great deal in a short space of time. He’d fallen in love and discovered sex and all the other interesting things two people could get up to in bed. Like sleep. And dreaming. 

Angels didn’t sleep, or at least they weren’t supposed to. They were supposed to be alert from halo to wingtips, ever vigilant to the presence of evil. Some of them even went to all the trouble of having eyes literally everywhere, all over their wings and all sorts, but Aziraphale didn’t hold with any of that business. It was far too flashy and – if he was honest – a bit too much like making more work for yourself. He had more than enough eyes to be going along with. 

Dreaming was a revelation. As soon as Aziraphale discovered that he could do it he immediately realised why Heaven was so keen on insomnia. The moment you snuggled under the duvet, plumped your pillow under your head and drifted off, _your mind was free to do absolutely anything it wanted to do._

And apparently his mind wanted to do Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s German wasn’t quite what it should have been, but it didn’t need to be. It was obvious that the sudden influx of late twentieth century erotica had sprung from his sleeping mind: Crowley was on all the covers. 

Sporting long red flowing locks and wearing nothing but a pout, Crowley reclined on a bed of black satin. The sheet was pulled up to his waist, but it was a pathetic attempt at concealment. Aziraphale could not only make out the exact shape of Crowley’s penis through the satin, but if he squinted he was sure he could also see the little almost-heartshaped freckle just under the frenulum. It was all very embarrassing. 

Aziraphale was trying to figure out how to explain this new phenomenon to Crowley when the demon himself walked in through the door, bringing pastries from the coffee shop around the corner. “_Mental_ in there this morning. Hopefully got the right order. You did say hazelnut latte didn’t…” He paused in the middle of handing Aziraphale his coffee and frowned. “Uh…what have you got there? Is that…?” 

“Yes.” 

“And I’m…” 

“Yes. Very,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t suppose you want to set my mind at ease and tell me that you spent part of the late nineteen nineties lounging around Frankfurt posing for the covers of dirty books, do you?” 

Crowley, still admiring the cover photo, shook his head. “You know I didn’t,” he said. “Although my hair looks great. Do you think I should revisit the whole curls thing?” 

“Never mind your blasted hair. I’m dreaming softcore pornography into existence.” 

“This was you?” 

“It must be. An adolescent boy isn’t going to fill the back of my bookshop with German hausfrau porn, is he? Even if he is the bloody Antichrist.” Aziraphale sat down, stricken. “I think there’s something terribly wrong with me. Every time I close my eyes and go to sleep the inside of my brain turns into some kind of…sex Olympics.” 

Crowley, nose already in the book, waved a hand. “Yeah, that happens to everyone.” 

“It does?” 

“Course it does. That’s what dreams are for. They’re like a release valve for sexy thoughts. And anxiety.” 

“Anxiety?” said Aziraphale, carefully removing the lid of his coffee. 

“Yeah. Like when you have those dreams that Satan’s called you personally to his office, but you’re halfway down the hallway and you realise you’re not wearing trousers. And then when you get to the office you realise you’re _totally_ naked, Satan’s turned into a giant blueberry muffin for some reason, and Beelzebub is doing their nut screaming ‘WHY THE FUCK IS OUR LORD AND MASTER A GIANT BLUEBERRY MUFFIN?! AND WHY IS YOUR FUCKING COCK OUT, CROWLEY?!’” 

Aziraphale blinked, taken aback. The Beelzebub impression had been startlingly accurate. Not to mention loud. “That sounds…horrible,” he said. 

“It is,” said Crowley. “It can’t be all fun and games and…” He peered into the pages of the book. “Rimjobs. I hate to tell you this, angel, but this isn’t exactly softcore.” 

“I didn’t know you read German.” 

“Berlin. Nineteen twenties. Picked up a bit while I was there. Just basic phrases, really. _Nice weather we’re having. Where’s the train station? Would you like to snort pharmaceutical grade speed off my freshly spanked buttocks? _That kind of thing.” 

“Right,” said Aziraphale, determined not to be sidetracked by spanking and amphetamines. “But why am I dreaming in German?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Why is Satan a blueberry muffin? Why does the queen parachute into your living room and announce that she’s changing her name to Ernest? That’s dreams for you. Weird and random is pretty much their entire job description.” 

“Yes, but they don’t usually _manifest_, do they?” 

“No,” said Crowley. “But you’re an angel. Let’s face it, one time you got an erection and turned Britain’s oldest hot spring into a cheeky little Mouton Rothschild 1959. Then there was that time you dreamed an entire roof terrace into existence, which was nice. Very nice, actually.” He lowered his sunglasses and made hopeful eyes over the rims. “Do you think maybe you could make that one a recurring dream? I know your dreams usually disappear by lunchtime, but it would still give me a window to top up my tan.” 

“I doubt it,” said Aziraphale. Crowley had been devastated when he’d gained and lost a roof terrace in a single morning. He was even more annoyed that Aziraphale hadn’t yet managed to dream him up a hot tub. “I really don’t think my dreams work like that, Crowley. It’s like you said – they’re ephemeral, and undisciplined, no matter how many times you lie next to me and whisper ‘Jacuzzi’ in my ear when you think I’m unconscious. I can’t just…dream to order.” 

“Well, no. You haven’t been at it very long. You just need to practice, that’s all.” 

“Wait…_you_ can dream to order?” 

“Yeah, up to a point. I’ve never manifested, though. That must be an angel thing.” Crowley put down the book and reached for his coffee-adjacent drink. “It’s all that generative power you’ve got going on, shooting out in weird directions.” 

“Generative…?” That seemed unlikely, if not actually impossible. “No, I don’t think so. Angels don’t…generate.” 

“I hate to be the one to tell you,” said Crowley. “But you do. Every time you have an orgasm all the houseplants go into a growth spurt. Oh, and there’s like a whole pocket of humanity that literally exists because one time you got hot and bothered in a damp church in Lancashire.” 

“Yes, but I wasn’t directly responsible,” said Aziraphale. “I simply inspired a lot of…” 

“…fucking?” 

“Perhaps. I’d like to think there was _some_ tender lovemaking involved somewhere.” 

“Doubt it,” said Crowley. “I got a good lungful of your inspiration, and you know what happened to me. I got so antsy in the pants that I had to sit on a witchfinder’s—” 

“—yes, all right. Do we have to revisit the incident?” said Aziraphale. “It still doesn’t explain why I’m filling my bookshop with half-baked smut. Maybe I should just…stop sleeping, before I cause any actual mischief.” 

“But you _like_ sleeping.” Crowley got up from his chair and slunk over, hips moving in a distracting cobra sway. His thumbs slid down the back of Aziraphale’s collar and rubbed, expertly finding the spots where Aziraphale’s wings most often put a crick in his neck. “We’ve _had_ this conversation, angel. Why shouldn’t you get to do whatever you like whenever you like?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale sighed, trying to relax into the touch. There was absolutely no reason why he couldn’t pull Crowley into his lap right now, miracle his trousers off and fuck him senseless on the pile of temporary German porn, but he was still enough angel to feel a twinge of shock at his own unfettered impulses. “Be patient with me, darling. I’ve been training myself to think and feel a certain way for six thousand years. That’s a lot of habit to break.” 

“I know,” said Crowley, teeth scraping the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. “But you’ll get there. You always do.” 

His mouth fastened on a patch of skin and he sucked, a gentler version of the lovebites where he’d draw the blood to the surface of the skin and leave a reddish purple bruise. He liked, he said, to leave Aziraphale looking like a demon had been all over him. 

“What are you doing back there?” Aziraphale said, even though it was obvious. Crowley was now nuzzling, with purpose and intent. 

“Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” 

“Mmhm.” Crowley circled him and – with the swing of a long, skinny thigh – slithered astride his lap. His kiss tasted warmly of coffee and sugar and his hair suddenly seemed longer than it had a moment ago. He tossed his glasses aside with a clatter and came back for seconds. His waist still seemed inhumanly small, even though he’d lately gained a handful of much-needed pounds. 

“I think you might be doing something,” Aziraphale said, against his lips. 

The shop bell tinkled. Crowley stiffened, said, “Fuck off, we’re closed,” and they were alone once again. That was the trouble with Crowley: he was _good_ at things, especially things that Aziraphale was supposed to be the expert at, like keeping people out of secondhand bookshops. His hair was definitely longer, and sometimes it was hard to tell if the new softness about him was a few extra pounds or something else itching beneath the surface of his current corporation, something as shiny and fascinating as the pristine new scales glimpsed beneath the ragged sloughings of a molting snake. When he raised his arms to twist up his hair his t-shirt rode up, and the band of his underwear was black and lacy. He was wearing an earring, too. Not a man’s earring, but a little rococo droplet of red – ruby or spinel – dangling beneath a diamond encrusted silver bow. Aziraphale pictured him scooping it up from a ballroom floor, in Paris perhaps, or Vienna. Lost forever to the other one of its pair, because red was a demon’s second favourite colour. 

“What are we going to do with you, hmm?” Crowley said. “How do we stop your unfed imagination squirting all over the bookshop at night?” 

“Don’t say it like that. You make it sound so disgusting.” 

“It _is_ disgusting,” he said. Or she said. It was hard to tell with Crowley sometimes. “Did you read those books you dreamed? Anal fisting? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I haven’t,” said Aziraphale. “Nor will I ever. Stop laughing, you fiend.” 

“Your subconscious is filthy, angel. I’m impressed.” 

“Oh dear God,” said Aziraphale. “What on earth is the matter with me? Do you think this is why angels aren’t allowed to sleep?” 

“Nope,” said Crowley. “Angels aren’t allowed to sleep because Heaven doesn’t like you having uncontrolled thoughts.” 

“That’s a very cynical interpretation.” 

“Is it?” said Crowley, raising an eyebrow. He was wriggling again, a slow side to side sway that drew Aziraphale’s eye to that tantalising little sliver of black lace peeking over the top of his jeans. It had been over a decade since Crowley’s feminine side came out to play, and the last time had been business, not pleasure. 

Aziraphale had watched her, as he was supposed to. He’d seen her walking back to the house through the Dowlings’ orchard, three fingers and a thumb of one hand given over to carrying a bag full of picnic chair and colouring books, her pinky extended for Warlock to grip. In the other hand she’d held three small apples the size of juggling balls, because she could never help her instincts when confronted with an apple tree. He’d seen her scooping up the boy when he fell off his bike, soothing skinned knees, and – this one had been a shock – steering the child around the swimming pool on his inflatable water wings. She’d worn a modestly cut black one-piece suit, complete with an ugly black latex bathing cap pulled down over her fire red bob. Smoked glass goggles instead of glasses. Hardly a bathing beauty, but oh the legs. And then Crowley had turned sideways and Aziraphale had absent mindedly soaked his shoes with the hose he’d been supposed to be aiming at the tomato plants, because Crowley had really _committed_ to his disguise. 

He had always known Crowley could do this. And he’d seen it more than once. It had just happened that at the time his psyche had not been prepared for the sight of wet lycra and hard nipples, and that night he’d ended up deep in a bottle of whiskey, attempting to make the phrase ‘champagne cup breasts’ stop bouncing off the inside of his skull like some kind of desperately erotic squash ball. 

Crowley nosed closer, his hand on Aziraphale’s cheek. His hair was very long, past his shoulders and falling in curls, the way it had the very first time, when he’d slithered past Aziraphale’s feet and shifted into the shape of something gold and black and crimson and somehow even _more_ exotic than the ten foot serpent he’d been a second before. “What have you done to your hair?” said Aziraphale, touching, because he could. 

“Do you like it?” 

“I think I do. Do you?” 

“You know me,” said Crowley. “I like to switch things up a bit.” 

He knew exactly what he was doing, of course. He loved having his hair played with as much as Aziraphale loved to play with it, sitting in the bathtub with Crowley between his legs, stroking conditioner through the wet strands until Crowley’s scalp was slick under the pressure of his thumbs. Crowley liked it best when Aziraphale rubbed hard enough for him to feel the skin move over the bones of his skull, and Aziraphale wondered if the new hair was an invitation to run a bath and laze around until their fingers and toes were like prunes. 

“What are you up to today?” he asked. 

Crowley dismounted from his lap and stretched. “Eggs.” 

“Eggs?” 

“Mm. I’m obsessed with that confit egg yolk thing they did on the steak tartare at the Savoy, and I think I’ve figured out how to do it.” 

“Really?” 

“Sixty degrees. Olive oil. Oh, and then there was a little truffle amuse bouche thing I wanted to try. You should come and play. It’s fun.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. The last time he’d tried cooking had been in the late fifteenth century, when he’d reduced a Roman _nonna_ to hysterics by the Colosseum-like consistency of his bread. “I don’t think so. I feel like…like it might kill the magic for me to find out how food happens. Besides, it’s your thing. I don’t want to step on your toes.” 

Crowley tied up his hair. “Okay,” he said, with a knowing tilt to his lips. “Fair enough.” 

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you suspect I’m at a loose end,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve got plenty to be getting on with.” 

“I know.” 

“I might even have a go at running a bookshop.” 

Crowley twirled two index fingers at his surroundings. “Ohh. Is that what all these books are about?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, sor-ry. I thought you were just a hoarder.” 

“Piss off,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley laughed. “Love yo-uu,” he singsonged, and sashayed off upstairs. 

* * *

There were always Consequences. 

Aziraphale had been made aware of this fact back when his wings were still downy, and despite everything that had happened to him in the intervening six thousand years some small, haloed part of him still believed it. Evil held the seeds of its own destruction, the righteous would never be uprooted, and no bad deed went unpunished. These were the little rules by which he had lived his life, and which invariably drove Crowley to poke two fingers down his throat, make exaggerated gagging noises and complain that Heaven’s rules all sounded ‘like they should be stitched on a fucking needlepoint cushion.’ 

Needlepoint cushions or not, you didn’t break the rules without Consequences. And Aziraphale had broken a _lot_ of rules. 

The empty bookshop had been the scene of many of these infractions. The couch. The desk. The table. That bit behind the Travel section. The other bit in the Drama section where he’d shoved _The Complete Plays of Euripides_ under the base of Crowley’s spine in order to get to just the right angle. The rug. It still had scorch marks in it. According to Crowley, rugs were supposed to give _you_ burns when you rolled around on them in the throes of passion, but it had often worked the opposite way with them. More than once they’d had occasion to reach for the fire extinguishers that Adam had thoughtfully provided when he’d restored the bookshop. 

There was no sign of Crowley. 

_ This is it,_ thought Aziraphale. _This is my punishment. He goes off and does other things and I’m left here, alone and haunted by the ghosts of my own self-indulgent lusts._

He waited. 

Any minute now. Crowley liked his little surprises. They kept things interesting. Any minute now, he’d stroll downstairs and start trying to pole dance around the pillars of the rotunda. 

Any minute now. 

Aziraphale put on his glasses and picked up his pen. This was usually a guarantee that the next time he looked up Crowley would be lying naked across the table with a rose between his teeth. “I know you can’t resist,” he said, under his breath. 

But apparently Crowley could. 

Aziraphale flipped the sign to CLOSED (a formality around these parts) and wandered upstairs. The flat had changed a lot recently. There were new bookshelves, new floors and a small jungle of houseplants that Crowley liked to hiss at and Aziraphale liked to pamper with Baby Bio and Monteverdi. Each one insisted that his method was the reason why the plants flourished.* 

The kitchen was Crowley’s masterpiece and his domain. He had transformed it into a near unrecognisable space, full of stainless steel, dark wood and extremely sharp knives. There were slate floors, a temperature controlled wine room and all the space Crowley could desire to indulge his fondness for gadgets. A long pottery window trough housed a collection of the most luxuriant (and neurotic) herbs in the whole of London. He’d been seduced by the idea of fire and playing with knives, but today he was as soft as butter, separating eggs with his cupped bare hands. Aziraphale drew close and watched, fascinated, as Crowley cracked the eggs, tipped out the contents and let the translucent white drip through his slender fingers into a bowl beneath. He took the raw yolk, held together by nothing more than a fragile membrane, and dropped it intact into a ramekin. 

“Hi,” he said, and swayed on his big, bare feet, leaning in to bestow a casual kiss. 

Aziraphale narrowly resisted the urge to cup his jaw and plunge in. Oh, he was _hopeless_. He was so far gone that just watching Crowley separate eggs made him ache. Somewhere he had read that if – when newlywed – you put a penny in a jar every time you made love, then after a year you took a penny from the jar every time you made love, you still wouldn’t empty that jar until death did you part. Which was a worry, especially for immortal beings. “What are you making?” he asked, determined to be sensible. 

“I told you. Steak tartare. The rest is a surprise.” 

“I think it’s marvellous, the way you apply yourself.” 

Crowley shrugged. “What can I say? You inspire me.” 

Inspiration. Wonderful. Aziraphale had always been the Inspiration. It was part and parcel of his powers as a principality. He’d cheerled for Shakespeare, convinced Henry Fielding to take up satire, suggested male pseudonyms to the Brontë sisters**, and – and this one counted as a bit of a cock up – rode in a hurry from Porlock to tell Samuel Taylor Coleridge about an exciting new apothecary that had opened up in the high street. 

He watched as Crowley whisked up some of the egg whites and stirred them rapidly into a pot of something bubbling and savoury smelling. He’d never seen Crowley like this before. Aziraphale had always been the one with the hobbies. Foolish things, now that he looked back at them. Dancing, book collecting, stage magic. He’d even attempted knitting, but could never get the tension right. He’d bobbed along with enough peace of mind to amuse himself with these things, secure in the mistaken knowledge that he was squarely on the side of the goodies. 

Crowley, on the other hand, knew that Heaven was basically rotten and Hell was much, much worse. His only real hobbies had been houseplant abuse, gratuitous drinking and worrying what either side’s next move was. He had never, despite his pose of draping himself all over the place like a sexy novelty draft excluder, really relaxed until now. He looked an absolute picture with his bare feet and his yellow eyes, all those demon parts shamelessly on display. His impossibly red hair was caught in a fat, careless knot at the nape of his neck, the front of his black apron getting flecked with egg white as he picked up the whisk again and went to work, adding sugar this time, spoon by spoon. It was a joy to see him so absorbed, but at the same time a flicker of regret at not being the subject of his focus. Aziraphale sighed, sure it couldn’t be healthy for an angel to be jealous of egg whites. 

Crowley turned off the whisk and blinked at him. “Come on. Out with it.” 

“Out with what?” 

“Whatever’s going on in your head,” said Crowley. “I can hear the mental cogs grinding over the sound of the hand blender. What’s up?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Aziraphale, not quite ready to admit that he pined for Crowley whenever they weren’t in the same room. “This manifesting business has me worried. I’ve never done it before. Do you think it’s some sort of symptom?” 

“Symptom of what?” said Crowley, leaning his bare, sharp elbows on the kitchen island. 

“I’m not sure. Perhaps some side effect of abusing my angelic powers to give you orgasms.” 

“Nuh uh,” said Crowley. “You use your powers to make me come because you love me. You’re a being of love, giving love. How is that abuse?” 

“It’s not, I suppose. When you put it like that.” 

“Put it like what? My logic is flawless. You’re not going all Victorian values again, are you?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale, who wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t. “Anyway, how would you know anything about Victorian values? You slept through most of the nineteenth century.” 

“So? You don’t have to have lived through a century to know what it was like. May I acquaint you with the human thing called History? You might have a few books on it downstairs.” 

“All right. There’s no need to be sarcastic.” 

“Isn’t there?” said Crowley, arching an eyebrow. “I know how your mind works, angel. Your idea of good behaviour is very Victorian. Proper diction. Good posture. Immaculate fingernails. Not saying fuck. Stands to reason that you might have a few nineteenth century cautionary tales bobbing around in the dark corners of your psyche. You know – the ones where they told you that if you touched your own penis you’d contract instantaneous neurosyphilis and your nose would fall off.” 

“Hmm, yes,” said Aziraphale. “Hairy palms.” 

Crowley held up both hairless hands. “See? Total bullshit. If that was true, I’d be a werewolf.” 

“You know nobody really paid any attention to that, don’t you? All that Victorian prudery was the thinnest of veneers. My overwhelming memory of the nineteenth century was that everyone around me seemed to be at it like rabbits. Going into the twentieth, too, now that I think of it. George Mallory kept taking his clothes off, for some reason. He’d just be nude at every possible opportunity. Then of course there was Frieda and D.H. Lawrence, and whatever was going on between Virginia and Vita…” 

“…ah. The Bloomsbury set.” 

“It was very hard to keep track, to be honest.” 

“I’m not surprised,” said Crowley. “If you tried to draw a line diagram of who banged who in _that_ nest of horny bisexuals you’d come out with something that looked like a plate of dropped spaghetti. What the hell did you do with yourself while all that was going on?” 

Aziraphale waggled five fingers. “I think you’ve just answered your own question,” he said. “Besides, I had hobbies.” 

“What? Your dancing and that?” 

“No. I only really managed to master the gavotte, which was old fashioned even back then, of course. Never got the hang of the polka. Or the waltz. Of course, you needed a partner for those.” He sighed. “And you know how time flies. Fashions change. On the cusp of the twentieth century I thought I’d almost got the hang of the foxtrot, and the next thing you know it’s the bloody Jazz age and everyone’s doing the Charleston. I couldn’t keep up with that. I don’t think my knees even bend that way.” 

Crowley laughed. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “You’re a lot bendier than you look. Trust me on this.” 

“Naughty.” 

“Always,” said Crowley. “What happened to the Twist?” 

“The what?” 

“The Twist. That night, at the Ritz. When we got hammered and talked about what we were going to do now that the world hadn’t ended, remember? You were going to learn how to do the Twist.” 

“Oh. That,” said Aziraphale. “No. I did that.” 

“The Twist?” 

“Mhm. It’s sort of…” Aziraphale started with one foot first. Lift the heel, wiggle it back and forth, get the arms going. “Like this.” 

Crowley pressed his lips together very hard, but his eyes said he was quietly having hysterics. “That’s it?” 

“Yes. That’s it,” said Aziraphale, twisting to a halt. He smoothed down the front of his waistcoat. “Rather underwhelming, I’m afraid. Not a patch on the old gavotte. I’m told there’s some deep knee bending and something called the ‘mashed potatoes’ that goes on, too, but I think that’s more for the advanced classes.” 

Crowley made a heroic effort at keeping a straight face, and almost managed it. “Well, it’s very good.” 

It wasn’t. Crowley was – much as he would never admit it – being nice. 

“Maybe I should try knitting again,” said Aziraphale. “Or something improving and healthy. Like jogging. Or golf.” 

“Blrk,” said Crowley. 

“Don’t be like that. This is partly your fault. I think you might have broken me.” 

“Uh, how so?” 

“All the…frantic shagging,” said Aziraphale. “I’m afraid it might have ruined me for everything else that isn’t sex.” 

“Shut up. I’ve seen you go hog wild on a patisserie box. I know Lust is your new favourite sin, but don’t count yourself out of the Gluttony game just yet. You’re still very much a contender, baby.” 

Aziraphale shook his head and chewed his lower lip in thought. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. Everything else seems so _dull_ in comparison with…well…with you. It’s the strangest feeling. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced it before.” 

“What? Boredom?” 

“Boredom? Do you think that’s what it is?” 

“Sounds like it.” 

“Well, I never. How interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever been bored before,” said Aziraphale, conscious that Crowley was starting to look restive. “I’m sorry, dearest. Would you like me to experience boredom elsewhere?” 

Crowley visibly relaxed. So that was a yes. “It’s not that I don’t want you here, but this is supposed to be a surprise.” 

“Of course, darling. I shall take myself out of your way. Is there anything I can bring you for dinner? Flowers? Chocolates? Any particular wine?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Just bring yourself. And an appetite.”

* * *

That night Aziraphale brought flowers anyway, the freckled pink stargazer lilies that Crowley loved because their heady scent reminded him of the first flowers in Eden. He was glad he’d done so, because Crowley’s sleek, stylish kitchen looked and smelled inviting and romantic. Tea light candles floated in an amber Murano glass bowl in the middle of the kitchen island. The wine glasses stood ready to be filled and the wine was breathing. The first time Crowley had done this the kitchen had still smelled slightly of burned linoleum, even though they had already replaced the floor. He’d cooked spaghetti in a bolognese sauce that his present self would have eyed with pity and shame, but it had been the most wonderful dinner of Aziraphale’s life. That night Crowley had agreed to officially move in with him. 

“Something smells delicious,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley, sweating next to the eye-level grill, gave himself a none too furtive sniff. “It’s definitely not me,” he said, and dabbed his forehead. “Pour me some wine, would you? It’s way past booze o’clock.” 

His first cooking experiments had been hit and miss. Mostly miss. On more than one occasion Crowley had got a little hellfirey with the flambe and reduced dinner to a series of charcoal briquettes. At first he’d pronounced other chefs cowards for leaning too heavily on tried and tested flavour combinations, but thankfully he’d got over that in a hurry. Crowley may have had an ego, but he also had a superb sense of smell, and consequently a palate too good to let him cling to the illusion that smoked haddock and white chocolate – to cite a truly unforgettable example – ever deserved to be part of the same flavour profile. 

What he brought to the table tonight looked a lot more enjoyable. It was an espresso sized cup of a hot, clear, savoury smelling broth, with a thin, tiny slice of toast for dipping. “Oh my,” said Aziraphale, impressed. “How fancy.” 

“Don’t get too excited,” said Crowley. “It might be revolting.” 

Aziraphale shook his head, already revelling in the first sip. The soup tasted even more savoury than it smelled, rich and truffly and yet incredibly delicate. “It’s not. It’s really, really not. Good lord, that is _remarkable_. You’ve outdone yourself. It’s close to an erotic experience.” 

Crowley grinned and dipped his toast into his cup. “Wild mushroom consomme, with black truffle shavings,” he said. “And then we have a black garlic crostini topped with just a sliver of melted pecorino, and a little…something else.” 

“Something else?” 

“Something you said, back when you figured out that metaphysical edging was a thing you could do to me. A little bit at once, you said. Like a tasting menu.” 

Aziraphale paused in mid nibble and stared. “Crowley, you didn’t…” 

“I did,” said Crowley, flushed and sweaty-sexy from the heat of the kitchen. “You know how you’re always on at me to tempt you? And I always worry that you’re going to trough on temptation until smoke comes out of your ears again?” He leaned closer on the bar stool, his knee touching Aziraphale’s. “I figured out a way to refine the delivery system. Feed it to you in bite size pieces.” 

“You mean this is…not just _close_ to an erotic experience? It actually…” 

“…is, yeah.” Crowley stole a kiss between bites of crostini. “I stirred temptation into every mouthful.” He laughed at Aziraphale, who was already fingering his collar. “Take it easy, tiger. This is just the amuse bouche. You’ve got a four course tasting menu of temptation ahead of you.” 

“You’re a genius,” said Aziraphale, thinking of those infinitely delicate golden bubbles of egg yolk in Crowley’s bare hands, and how somehow the sight had excited him. No wonder, if Crowley had been working his magic on the stuff at the time. “Does it have any effect on you?” 

Crowley shook his head. “Not directly, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to reciprocate. Feel free to show your appreciation in the form of celestial orgasms, by the way.” He spotted Aziraphale’s glance at the kitchen floor and guessed what he was thinking. “Relax. Slate’s fireproof. That’s why I chose it. _And_ I had them put in sprinklers.” 

The next course was a delicate salad of rocket leaves, basil and ribbons of fresh peach, with oily, toothsome pine kernels and a strawberry balsamic dressing. It was the lightest of dishes, yet as he ate Aziraphale felt a dark, delicious heaviness settle beneath the backs of his ribs. Crowley nibbled and picked at his salad, watching every bite and drinking in every sigh of pleasure. He’d been doing this for centuries, of course, in grotty taverns and expensive restaurants alike. He’d sit as still as something mesmerised, his eyes hidden behind smoked glass, but every line and angle of his pointed body language betraying not just interest but a fascination that at times had made Aziraphale wonder what on earth he got out of it. 

Instinct, Crowley had finally admitted, now that everything was allowed. “It’s probably what I was put here for – to hold my breath while watching people take bites of things that aren’t good for them. Or for anyone. The first time I saw you moaning over an oyster all my demon parts stood up, tore their clothes and screamed.” 

Crowley wasn’t wearing glasses any more, so Aziraphale could see everything. He could observe the swell and slit of Crowley’s pupils as Crowley watched him eat. Extraordinary eyes, unnaturally beautiful with their strange, intoxicating shades – chartreuse, whiskey gold and flecks of absinthe. White teeth, red hair, the little diamond bow with its ruby drop dangling against the black snake that curled down from his ear. Aziraphale’s gaze flicked downwards, searching for that scrap of black lace that he’d seen before. The heaviness beneath his ribs – sticky and dark as molasses – seemed to ooze down his spine from the inside, bleeding out the end of his tailbone and pooling in the soft, swelling places between his legs. He leaned in and Crowley – tongue red at the corner of his mouth – fed him a curling piece of peach flesh from his fingers. 

“How does it feel?” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale remembered how to breathe. “Like…like gravity has shifted. And you’re at the centre of it. I’m in your orbit.” 

Crowley reached over and unfastened Aziraphale’s tie with a practised tug. “It’s cumulative,” he said, lips wet, fingers at work on a top button. “At least, that’s what I was going for. A slow build. Like a curry that gets hotter as you eat it.” 

There was spice in the next course, a monkfish ceviche with coriander, ginger and green chili. The gentle burn made Aziraphale’s lips tingle, the clean, green flavours a contrast to the thick, silky darkness filling him, bite by bite. With every mouthful Crowley seemed to become lovelier, the gold of his eyes rarer, the red of his hair an incitement to riot. He smelled of sweat and sugar and spice, and sat so close that his knees were pushing against the edge of Aziraphale’s bar stool. “Are you under my spell yet?” he whispered, his breath fragrant with fresh ginger as he leaned in to kiss between bites. 

“In your thrall. Exactly where I wanted to be.” Aziraphale ran a finger over Crowley’s lips, but Crowley didn’t take what he was offering. “Don’t you want it?” 

Crowley shook his head and smiled. “I’m saving myself,” he said. “For now. Believe me, I fully expect to be fucked at the end of this.” 

He fed Aziraphale the next course, steak tartare, raw as lust, the salted egg yolk unctuous from its slow bath of olive oil. As the richness of it coated his tongue, Aziraphale once again pictured Crowley lifting the yolks from the whites, standing barefoot in the kitchen, hips swaying subtly in an eldritch _danse du ventre_ as he trickled his power into the more mundane – but no less thrilling – magic of herbs and heat and flavour. The pooled, luscious darkness inside him rose and pressed against the bottoms of his lungs. He was so hard that his body couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be hard, not to have every muscle and heartbeat and molecule straining toward the demon who was holding the fork, inviting him to take another bite. “Good?” Crowley whispered, stealing a kiss between mouthfuls. 

Panting, Aziraphale grabbed a handful of hair and held him there, needing more. “I love you. I _want_ you.” Crowley’s tongue seemed longer. His kiss was all flickers, flesh and yolk and slitted pupils, and Aziraphale had never been more aware that he was tasting the mouth of the serpent of Eden. “Please,” he said, offering the tip of his own tongue, wanting to pour some of that lapping darkness – now mingled with the high tide of his own desire – back into Crowley. “Take it.” 

But Crowley shook his head again. “There’s dessert.” 

“_Crowley_…” 

Laughing, Crowley slithered off again. His hip sway, always hypnotic, seemed more pronounced than before, recalling those nights when she’d sneaked down to the gardener’s shed and had a few, too many to maintain Nanny’s stiff-backed, no-nonsense posture. He walked back, a dish in each hand, and the slight, lovely outward curves of his long thighs consumed every last thought in Aziraphale’s head. The peek of lace above his waistband. Dear God, was it even possible to want someone this much without accidentally self immolating? 

“Wait,” said Aziraphale, as Crowley set down the dishes. He reached out and pulled Crowley closer. Black lace on hot skin. Crowley’s tight jeans looked curiously flat at the front, perhaps another symptom of the sloughing, eager-to-shift energy that had crackled around his corporation lately. “I like this,” Aziraphale said, caressing the little strip of lace. “A lot.” 

He felt a static crackle against the tips of his fingers as Crowley shifted, already tiny waist narrowing even further under Aziraphale’s hand. She smiled down at him, her new face – with its smaller jaw – all yellow eyes and black brows. “Dessert,” she said, determined to be impossible from the get-go. 

Dessert was a delicate raspberry and grenadine mousse, with light-as-air amaretti. She was trying to tease, but she was getting impatient, too, panting and squirming in her seat. “Do you want me like this?” she said, her fingers in his mouth again. He sucked them clean. 

“I want you every single way there is to want you.” 

She was so lithe, so delicate. Thin wrists, sharp elbows, small breasts stretching the fabric of her t-shirt so that it rode up at the front, revealing pale bare skin where there would usually have been hair. Her jeans were tighter over her hips now, and she exhaled in relief as she popped open the fly button, revealing more lace. He was close to madness now, his whole being consumed by the desire to find out what was between her thighs. He’d had that particular delicacy before, notched and soft and greedy, but it was different like this. She was a woman, the woman who had tempted popes and defiled puritans. He reached up, tracing the shape of her side, her breast, and touched his finger to her mouth. 

“When do I get to taste you?” he asked, and this time her lips closed over the end of his finger. She sucked gently but she barely had to do so, because he was so full, brimming with lust and love. Her mouth fell open in a gasp, and he held his finger to the end of her tongue as she rocked into her own cupped hand, grinding against the seam of her jeans. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, breaking the contact, hips still writhing. “Fuck, _fuck_.” 

And there it was, the answer to a centuries old mystery: now he knew for sure that this wasn’t the first time he’d seen her come. “So beautiful,” he said. 

Crowley stripped off her t-shirt, baring high, firm breasts. Hard red nipples. She was in his lap again in an instant, her tongue in his mouth and her hand down her jeans. She licked another climax from the tip of his tongue and offered him her wet fingers to suck. She tasted of salt and heat, temptation direct from the source. The darkness surged inside him, flooding every part of his body until it reached that little switch in the very centre of his brain, the one that whispered _yes_ and made orgasm inevitable. All that gooey black lust had a finer texture now, tempered by Crowley’s love. Now it was less cloying, more velvet, the deep red-black at the heart of the darkest rose. He moaned around her fingers as he felt it burst and bloom inside him, a slow, delicious explosion that left no space for breath or thought. He came the way he had the first time, upright, untouched, fully clothed, his head full of her, of him, of Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. 

“Oh God,” he said, still shuddering, her fingers wet on his chin. “I love you. I love you.” 

She grabbed a handful of his shirt front and pulled him to his feet. “Show me,” she said, and there was a soft snarl in her voice. “Eat me.” 

At some point the jeans had disappeared. The next thing he knew he was following her into the bedroom with nothing on his mind but how to get those tiny black lacy pants off her. She was way ahead of him, kicking them off her toes as her arse hit the bed and her legs – pale and endless – flew up and apart. He’d seen her like this only once before, strands of tangled red hair falling into her moaning mouth as she writhed around in her sleep. Off limits, he’d told himself, sternly. Absolutely forbidden. The kind of thing that would definitely cost you your wings. (But would still be worth it.) 

Only now he could. He could have everything. She was spread out on the bed, wet and wide, one hand at work between her thighs. The other hand stretched out to reach for the raspberry mousse that Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed her carrying into the bedroom. He dropped to his knees, stupefied, as Crowley scooped up a messy handful in her tapering fingers and smeared it – pink on pink, temptation laced – between her legs. “Not like you not to finish your dessert, angel,” she said. 

Her laugh trailed off in a throaty cry as he dived in, up to his ears in sugar and her. The sweetness filled him again, dark heat and sticky hunger. He was beginning to realise what she’d been afraid of, because his appetite seemed endless, no matter how much he knew that at some point all that temptation would have to burst out of him. It almost hurt, as though it was straining the seams of his corporation, and feeding her the tips of his fingers and tongue weren’t going to be enough any more. He was three knuckles deep, the flat of his tongue pressed against her, red hair tickling his nose until her fingers came down and wriggled their way either side of her clitoris, pressing down and making it stand up slick and swollen, as hard as the tip of one of her nipples, an occult teat between her legs. Aziraphale gently nudged her fingers aside, fastened his mouth over her and suckled, so that she bucked and cried out. 

“Please,” she said, pulling his hair. “Please, angel. Please.” 

“Yes, all right, dear.” He scrambled back onto the bed and unbuttoned with shaking hands. She was so wet he barely had to push and as she closed around him it was like another soft, dark explosion deep inside his head, a purely metaphysical orgasm this time, leaving him trembling from skull to tailbone. He hadn’t even started to move yet, but this, he supposed, was what it felt like to fuck a succubus. He’d read somewhere that they were cold inside, but she was blood hot and velvet, her hips rising to meet him. He was brimming, dangerously full, once again slightly terrified to have been given what he’d begged for. She’d fed him until he was overflowing, his veins pumped full of Hell’s hungers and her love. 

He went slowly, but Crowley was having none of it. She wrapped her legs around him, fucking with two strokes of her hips to meet every one of his. She felt like blown and spun glass, a vessel too fragile to withstand the roaring tide inside him. Her tongue flickered and searched inside his mouth, unerringly finding the tip of his tongue and coaxing him to spill once more, sucking down the lust she’d poured into him, now tempered with the heat of his own. He felt her come and she immediately came back for more, drinking greedily from a stream he could no longer dam. She was coming and coming and coming, squeezing him, milking him with the ripples of her internal muscles. “Careful,” he said, one last desperate objection before he forgot how to talk entirely. “Be _careful_.” 

“Fuck careful,” she said, in a clench-toothed voice, her heel digging into the small of his back. “Come on. Come _on_…” 

His last sane thought was that he probably should have tested the fire extinguisher before they started, but by then it was far too late. The bedroom walls shook as he poured into her, his whole being radiating, ringing, singing like a full glass when a wet finger was drawn around the rim. Pitch perfect, rising higher and higher and higher. She was wailing in counterpoint, quivering around him, her hair streaming down. He saw the shadow of her wings against the wall and then everything was white and gold and far too bright, his body far too small and soft and human for this. Crowley felt like she could shake apart in his arms, but her voice was loud and throaty. All of a sudden she was heavy in his arms and he realised with a start that they had both left the mattress and were hanging in midair above the bed. He almost dropped her, landing on the bed and drawing a dry throated wheeze from Crowley beneath him. 

“Sorry,” he said, and rolled off. “Are you all right?” 

Tears streamed from the corners of her closed eyes, her small breasts heaving in time with her panting breaths. She licked her lips several times and said “Nnhg,” or something similarly devoid of vowels. Steam rose from her skin. Slowly she uncurled her toes. The joints cracked noisily in a room that was suddenly far too quiet, vibrating with a bombed-out hush that Aziraphale recognised from that unforgettable night when they’d both survived a direct hit from a V2 rocket. “Crowley,” he said, fighting the urge to twitch back the curtain and check that Soho was still there. “Are you okay?” 

Crowley opened her eyes. “Oh yeah,” she said, after a couple of abortive attempts to speak. “Oh, hell yeah.” She grinned. “I’ve been waiting for that particular dicking since sixteen forty-nine.” 

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.” 

“Why are you thanking God?” She sat up and miraculously detangled her long red hair with a single shake of her head. “That whole dinner date was very much an infernal affair, thank you very much. Brought to you by yours truly.” She laughed and kissed him. “Don’t need to ask how it was for you. You’re _glowing_. Want some wine?” 

“Definitely,” said Aziraphale, but she was already off the bed and halfway out of the room. He walked to the window on wobbly knees and drew back the curtain far enough to satisfy himself that this time his climax hadn’t had a blast radius. So far, so good. Just a regular Friday night in London – drunks, tourists, pizza delivery people, all of whom were magically ignoring the 1926 Bentley illegally parked outside the bookshop. Aziraphale wriggled out of his remaining clothes and slipped under the covers. “Turn on the tap,” he called. “After sex like that I wouldn’t be surprised to find I’d turned central London’s entire water supply into Chateauneuf du Pape.” As he often did whenever they tried something new, he reached for the notebook he kept in the bedside drawer. He had barely got the cap off the pen when Crowley reappeared, stark naked, champagne flutes in one hand and bottle in the other. She had just popped the cork and a wisp of vapour curled from the open neck and against the side of her thigh like smoke. 

“_No_, angel,” she said. “Not the sex notebook.” 

“I like to be thorough.” 

“Yeah, and I like to be romantic,” she said, pouring out the pink champagne. It was the same Laurent Perrier they’d enjoyed at that place in Covent Garden. “Which doesn’t involve taking notes like you’re fucking birdwatching or something.” 

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale, and closed the notebook. For now. 

“I should think so,” she said, with a nannyish primness belied by the way she clinked her glass against his and then immediately downed her champagne in one before he even had a chance to ask her what they should drink to. Nanny Ashtoreth had been able to put it away, too, especially that time when Ambassador Dowling had decided that certain childhood illnesses built character, therefore Warlock should be subjected to a thing called a ‘chicken pox party.’ “All very well for him to say,” Nanny had said, swinging a stockinged foot over the arm of a chair as she seethed into her fifth or sixth single malt. “He’s not the one who has to stay up all night explaining to a small, itchy, miserable human why he’s not allowed to scratch his pustules, is he?” And then she’d sniffed the front of her stained maroon blouse and lamented that she’d be smelling of calamine lotion until kingdom come, which had been around six or seven years away at that point. 

“When we were with the Dowlings,” Aziraphale said, watching her refill her glass. “And you used to sneak out for drinks, did you ever…?” 

Crowley slurped up the foam that had spilled over the top of the glass. Some of it ran down her chin and between her bare breasts. Aziraphale leaned over and licked it up, making her laugh. “What?” she said, and slipped into the refined lowlands accent she’d used in those days. “Did you think Nanny was in need of a little bit of hanky panky? Think I’d come tiptoeing up to your door in kitten heels and no knickers?” 

“Mm. And those stockings with the seams up the back.” 

She laughed again and shook her head. “Nope.” 

“No?” 

“No. You seriously think I’d let those teeth anywhere near my clitoris?” 

“The teeth were part of the disguise. I was incognito,” said Aziraphale. 

She shook her head, long red hair swirling over bare shoulders. “I don’t know what you were,” she said. “But trust me, for the first time in six thousand years I didn’t feel so much as a twitch below the belt for you. You should have taken a leaf out of my book. Gone a bit feminine with it.” 

“What? A lady gardener?” said Aziraphale, which Crowley seemed to find incredibly funny for some reason. 

“Yes, a lady gardener,” she said, leaning against the footboard of the bed in fits of giggles. “Could have been quite sexy. Bare legs and wellies. Little denim shorts and an inadequate bra, like that woman who used to be on _Ground Force_.” She sucked in a lusty, hissing breath between her sharp white teeth. “Sister Frances. I’d have been at your back door with a wet snatch and a bottle of Glenmorangie every night.” 

“Crowley!” 

She laughed, punched a cushion into shape and shoved it behind her, then settled back, cross-legged. As she opened her thighs one of the inner lips of her cunt got caught between the outer and stayed there, the sliver of pink poking out from the dark red hair like the tip of a saucy tongue. He’d always admired and sometimes envied her effortless, fearless fluidity, and wished he had the nerve to join her, but he was accustomed to being man-shaped, and besides – as Crowley was fond of pointing out – being a woman was a lot easier when you happened to be a being who had no particular concerns about being perceived as nice. 

“You are _wonderful_,” said Aziraphale. “What a marvellous evening – the food, the wine. You. Especially you.” He refilled his glass. “Are you sure I didn’t cause any accidental miracles?” 

“Not that I could see,” said Crowley. “But we’ll probably go downstairs tomorrow and find that all the houseplants have turned the bookshop into a rainforest. That or there’ll be a weird spike in the birth rate in about nine months from now.” 

“Once, Crowley. I did that _once_.” 

“Yeah, but it was a thing. You were very potent, back in the day.” She sniggered and prodded him with her foot. “Hey, maybe I’m pregnant.” 

“You’re not,” said Aziraphale. 

“I could be. You’ve fucked me in every hole I have and some I had to invent for fun. Could be all kinds of pregnant right now.” Crowley burped and inspected the label on the wine bottle. “‘Avoid alcohol if pregnant or trying to conceive.’ Oh shit. I’m already a terrible mother.” 

“Stop it. You’re not pregnant, Crowley.” 

She emptied the bottle and frowned. “You seem very sure about that.” 

“I am sure,” said Aziraphale. “I…I can’t. I’m actually…I’m sterile. So. There you are.” 

Crowley shuffled forward on the bed, all wide eyed concern. “Shit,” she said. “Oh _shit_. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “It happened to everyone,” he said. “After the whole nephilim debacle, we were all ordered to report upstairs for treatment.” Crowley’s eyes were still far too big. “It’s really not a big deal. We all had it done.” 

“They gave you the celestial…?” 

“…snip. Yes.” He swallowed hard, moved not so much by what had happened to him but by Crowley’s reaction. “It was merely a management decision. Please stop looking at me like that.” 

“I can’t help it,” she said, her hand on his shoulder. “Angel, that is…that is fucked up. That is _dark_.” 

“It’s not that bad. Didn’t your lot…?” 

“Nope,” said Crowley. “Demons are all about the spawning. Very big on spawning, us demons. I mean, my lot are monstrous, but at least they left my knackers alone.” 

“Well, yes. That’s why I didn’t worry about prophylactics or anything like that. Because I…I can’t.” 

“Come here.” Crowley put both arms around him. Aziraphale returned the embrace, baffled as to how after all these years it still _did_ something to him when Crowley – who should have been able to do nothing of the sort – extended to him a style of simple, perfect kindness that would have made any observing archangel squirm in shame and realise they needed to try harder. 

“It was a very long time ago,” he said. “You’re making a fuss about nothing. I’m fine, really.” 

“I know that,” she said. “It’s just that the idea of anyone harming so much as a feather of your wings makes me want to…burn things. Or people.” 

“Oh, darling. That’s very sweet of you.” He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. “You always were a soppy old serpent deep down.” 

“Whatever,” she said, suitably embarrassed. “Don’t spread it around.” She kissed him back then reached for her wine at the end of the bed. “Look, if it’s any consolation, if by some terrible accident of Heaven or Hell we did managed to procreate, they would definitely come down – or up – and kill us all. So, you know. Maybe it’s a good thing that that won’t happen.” 

“You’re absolutely right.” 

“See?” said Crowley, stretching out on the bed again, her feet towards him. “Silver lining. Anyway, we’re perfect as we are.” 

“We are,” said Aziraphale. “Just the two of us.” 

“Totally. We’d be lousy parents. We’re old. And weird.” 

“Set in our ways.” 

“_So_ set in our ways,” she said. “There’d be no more dinners like this, for a start. Instead it would be those dinners where you end up wearing a plate of linguini Genovese because mummy’s little antichrist has decided he’s far too important to tolerate wheat.” She poked an invisible spoon into the air. “And that thing where you _think_ you’ve got the food in there and you _think_ they’ve swallowed it, but then they do that kind of reverse eating thing, like someone’s just run the film backwards. They can do that for hours. Starts with playful aeroplane noises, ends with sobbing, begging, bribery and carrot puree all down your Donna Karan.” 

Aziraphale sipped his champagne. “Oh dear. That does sound awful.” 

“It is, angel. I have literally witnessed tortures in Hell itself that are less stressful than trying to administer essential nutrition to a human toddler. And bedtimes? Don’t get me started on bedtimes. A kid’s not like a bookshop, you know. You can’t just hang a ‘closed’ sign at three o’clock in the afternoon and go and get pissed. No, you have to stay sober.” 

“What? All of the time?” 

“Pretty much,” said Crowley. “Until they get past that age where they have no instinct for self-preservation and you have to be alert all the time in case they try to eat pills or stuff their fingers in the garbage disposal.” 

“And how long does that last?” 

Crowley drained her glass and burped. “Well, for most of them it tapers off round about the time they’re allowed to vote, so…eighteen or so. Although in some humans it lasts longer. That’s how you get mountaineers, you see. Formula One racing drivers. Or that other thing. What’s that one where they throw you off a bridge and you’re attached to a big rubber band?” 

“Bungee jumping,” said Aziraphale. “I think it’s called bungee jumping.” 

“That’s the one. I mean, what happens to your blood pressure if you happen to give birth to one of those? A bungee jumper, or a racing driver, or one of those people who sees a mountain nicknamed the Widowmaker and is like ‘Oh, that sounds like a fun thing to climb’? Nobody needs that, angel. Especially not us. We’ve had enough stress and aggravation.” 

“You’re absolutely right, dear. We’ve reached a time of life where we deserve to take it easy.” 

“Exactly,” said Crowley, leaning over and kissing his bare knee. She smiled and trailed her long, soft hair up and down the length of his shin. It tickled. “Booze, food, sex. Lots of sex.” 

Her hair looked like the lava from an erupting volcano. In this, too, she had always been fluid, from the long Venetian red curls that had blown across her mouth in the hot, carrion scented wind from Golgotha, to the short, shaved-nape spikes that had smelled of ash and brimstone on the night bus back to London. She lifted the strands high above her head, baring the two matching dark-wine tufts in each pale armpit, then leaned forward, spreading her hair over his belly and thighs. He felt her breath beneath the blanket of silk and fire, the soft huff of her laugh and the tease of her tongue, wet on the tip of his stirring cock. He wanted her again, gentle this time, and human, losing themselves in the slap and slide and rhythm of simple flesh and friction until they were touching an ecstasy that was – in its own sticky, heart-thumping way – perhaps even more divine than anything Heaven could offer. 

“Turn around,” he said, wanting to taste her again. 

Crowley shifted on the bed, legs too long for the distance between Aziraphale and the headboard. They shuffled up and down on the bed, Crowley already complaining that he always got the pillow end whenever they did this. He shushed her with a lick between her thighs, but she didn’t return the favour, obviously now in the mood to tease. She stroked using only her fingertips, her breath gusting over him, and he responded in kind, rubbing his cheek against the damp tangle of her bush, drowning happily in her scent. He felt something tickle and looked down to see that she had wound a long strand of her hair into a tight curl and was using the fanned out ends like a brush, tickling and down the length of him and the inside of his thighs. She laughed and he very much wanted to return the favour, but of course his hair was far too short for that. 

In a moment of inspiration, Aziraphale reached into the space behind his shoulder and rummaged through the invisible feathers until he found one that felt as though it might yield. He gave it a sharp tug and pulled a pure white feather into visible space. “Now,” he said, and trailed the feather along the inside of her thigh. 

It sparked against her skin, startling both of them. “Sorry,” he said. “Did that hurt?” 

“No.” Crowley arched, one knee in the air, spreading her legs wider. “Do it again.” 

Fascinated, Aziraphale stroked the feather along the insides of her thighs. Molten gold dripped from the tip and sizzled and spat when it touched her skin, like water on hot metal. In its wake it left a glittering residue, oily and smelling faintly like burnt incense. Crowley shivered and licked him, her mouth closing over him and her moan vibrating around him as the feather moved high enough to tickle the curls of her pubic hair. She was wide open, pink and glistening, and he was suddenly on fire to know what would happen if he touched her there. 

“What does it feel like?” he asked. 

She released him for a moment, her panting breath cooling the spit on his cock. “It’s a bit like when you do the Thing, but softer. Concentrated…” She gasped as he brushed the feather very gently over the edges of her lips. “Please. Fuck, yes. _Please_.” 

He meant to tease, but he could never resist temptation. He brushed the feather right up the centre. The sparks danced higher and she swallowed him again, pushing his thigh into the air and spreading him almost as wide as she was. Her long fingers pushed, penetrating him with a lack of ceremony that recalled old fantasies of Ashtoreth – the pencil skirt, the leather gloves, the low, authoritative voice, and the hard ring of her heels on marble. And now he was finally here, worshipping at her altar while she sucked and fucked him. The feather struck sparks off her clitoris. He felt her lips – both pairs – tremble and twitch, and plunged in to kiss and lap and suck, devouring her as she came. She pushed deeper into him, making him roll and collide with something cold, hard and spiky. It rattled loud enough for Crowley to extract her head from between his thighs for a moment. “Whassat?” 

“Light fitting. Not sure when we ended up on the ceiling, but…” 

“Who fucking cares?” said Crowley, and rolled them both away from the light fitting, her fingers still inside him. “That’s better. Now…where were we?”

* * *

That night Aziraphale didn’t dream. Perhaps it was the food or the wine or the acrobatic sex, but something knocked him out thoroughly that he woke up with a new appreciation of why Crowley was so fond of his little naps. There was something very refreshing about taking a brief dip into oblivion whenever you felt like it, even if he didn’t completely approve of the way Crowley had once used it to punctuate his sulks. 

Crowley had left a note on the pillow, saying he’d gone to get coffee, or at least the semblance of, from the place around the corner. Aziraphale dressed, went downstairs and started to potter through the lazy almost-motions of opening the shop. He opened the front door just as Crowley wiggled up, clutching coffees and a bakery bag. On the doorstep was a reusable Waitrose bag filled to the brim with used copies of _Fifty Shades of Grey._

“Oh shit,” said Crowley. “You didn’t dream _those_, did you?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale, glaring up and down the street in the hope of identifying the perpetrator of this offence. “This is just a thing that happens to every secondhand bookshop and charity shop the entire length and breath of this green and unpleasant land.” Appealing to nobody and everybody at once, he pointed to the neatly lettered sign begging people not to donate their copies of _Fifty Shades of Grey_. “There’s a _sign_.” 

He left the books on the doorstep and huffed indoors, his tranquility already shattered for the morning. 

“I don’t know what your problem is,” said Crowley, catching sight of his scowl. “You’re always trying _not_ to sell books, and you sure as hell can’t shift _those_. And don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t responsible for that thing. That was one hundred per cent human.” 

“Plus ca bleeding change,” said Aziraphale. “I liked it better when it was called _Pamela_. It was still over two hundred thousand words of crying and rape threats, but at least the syntax didn’t make me want to throw up, drink heavily and curse the invention of language.”*** 

“I don’t think I’ve ever read it,” said Crowley, who had snagged a copy on his way in. He opened it at the first chapter, read a line and made a face like someone in the throes of a minor brain event. “Ooh, shit,” he said, and closed the book. “Well, that was a sentence. I think.” 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t get any better,” said Aziraphale, correctly identifying one of the cardboard cups as containing the tea he’d requested. He’d asked Crowley to stop bringing him hazelnut lattes, on account of how snug his waistband was starting to feel. “Is that an almond croissant?” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Crowley. Really. I’m fat enough as it is.”

Crowley reached up, grabbed Aziraphale’s lapels and pulled him down for a kiss. “Don’t care. I think you’re sexy.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks burn hot. “And obviously I…” All the words in all the languages in all the world and somehow he couldn’t find the ones to explain precisely how the motion of Crowley’s hips and the golden flash of Crowley’s eyes made his brain melt. “…I feel the same. About you.” He glanced at Crowley’s coffee cup. “So what’s today’s coffee flavoured sugar concoction?” 

“Chocolate vanilla something,” said Crowley, sipping. “I’m not sure. Definitely doesn’t contain coffee, though. I’m off coffee.” 

“But you love an espresso.” 

“I know. It’s weird. Just couldn’t stand the smell of it this morning.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Maybe I didn’t sober up properly last night. God, we were pissed.” 

“We usually are,” said Aziraphale, furtively miracling his indifferent tea into a spine-stiffening morning Assam. “Do you ever worry that we’re sliding into a drunk and unproductive old age?” 

“Worry? Me? No. I’m embracing it.” Crowley riffled through the pages of the book in front of him. “I think I saw her on _Newsnight_ once.” 

“Who?” 

“Fifty Shades woman. They were talking about the book. Jeremy Paxman was reeling off a list of sex acts that sounded like it should end in ‘The Aristocrats.’” Crowley frowned. “At least, I think it was Jeremy Paxman. Come to think of it, he might have had a reptile on his head. Made the book sound absolutely disgusting, anyway.” 

“It’s not,” said Aziraphale. “We’ve done weirder things in the missionary position.” 

“What? Like levitating?” 

“Among other things.” 

“You should write a dirty book,” said Crowley. “You’re always dreaming them. You may as well write one. You’ve got time now.” 

“Pfft. No. I couldn’t.” 

“Yes, you could. _Fifty Shades of Crowley._ I could be on the cover wearing nothing but a tie.” 

“Well, I _did_ finish my translation of Boccaccio, I suppose,” said Aziraphale. “And writing books does sound like the kind of thing people ought to do with their retirement.” 

“Exactly. You’d be brilliant at it.” 

“Do you think so?” 

“Yeah. You’re witty. You’re funny.” 

“Devastatingly debonair?” said Aziraphale. 

“Obviously. And you’ve read every book…ever. It’s like you were made to do this.” 

“Strictly speaking, I was made to love.” 

“There you go then,” said Crowley. “You should write a romance novel. Put pirates in it. One of them should have red hair. And tight trousers. And amazing fashion sense.” 

“I’m not putting you in my novel, Crowley. Otherwise it all gets a bit F. Scott Fitzgerald. Besides, my feelings for you are private and sacred. I’m not going to write them down.” 

“Ah, but you write them in your weird sex notebook, don’t you? You don’t even hide it. You reach for that thing before the sweat’s even dry.” 

“It’s a notebook,” said Aziraphale. “Not a novel. And it’s strictly for reference.” 

“Reference?” said Crowley, through a mouthful of almond croissant. “What do you need to refer to? You’ve had your hands all over me in so many different ways you could probably draw a map of me in the dark. You don’t need a reference section to know where all the happy bits are.” 

“Do I? Your…happy bits are occasionally interchangeable.” 

Crowley looked like he was about to say something, then decided not to. He got up from his chair, yawning and rubbing his stomach. “All right,” he said, stretching his spine. “I’m going to go and muck about in the kitchen. Have fun pretending to run a bookshop.” 

“I will.” 

Aziraphale had no intention of even pretending today. He hung the CLOSED sign, pulled down the blinds and went in search of the elderly Remington typewriter he’d once acquired just to see how it worked. He’d never produced anything original on it, although he had enjoyed teaching himself to touch type, clattering out typed versions of Herman Melville or – this was advanced level stuff – _Ulysses_. 

“There,” he said, once he’d miracled the worst of the dust off the thing and set it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He made himself a nice cup of tea, threaded a sheet of old but expensive paper into the machine and stared at it for a long moment. 

An hour later, he was still staring at the typewriter. 

He was astonished to find his mind was even blanker than the sheet in front of him. Once, in his desperation to be a little less scatty and a little more angelic, he had attempted Buddhist meditation. It hadn’t gone well. His mind – as it happened – was a frantically busy place, full of Baudelaire and Radio Four and the half-forgotten names of charming bakeries in the back streets of Bath. He had given up after half an hour, and consoled himself by thinking cattily of Gabriel and that surely minds were like homes: only dull angels had immaculate ones. 

At the time it hadn’t occurred to him to write a romance novel, although if it had he would probably have reached nirvana by now, if an angel _could_ reach nirvana, of course. His decision to write a novel had effectively wiped out all thought and turned the inside of his head into a microcosm of Purgatory. 

After another hour he reached for his tea. It was cold. 

Crowley chose that moment to come down, trailing the smells of wine and flesh behind him. He flopped down on the couch and glanced at the typewriter. Aziraphale had a sudden urge to throw the thing across the room. 

“How’s it going?” said Crowley. 

“Um…you know. Not…really…going at all, actually.” 

“Does the typewriter work?” 

“Yes. I think so.” 

Crowley turned the typewriter towards him, and – to Aziraphale’s sudden and unexpected annoyance – started typing. Just to add insult to injury, his typing speed was fairly impressive. “Keys are a bit sticky,” he said, and returned the typewriter to its original position. Where once there had been a blank space, Crowley had typed ‘It wasn’t a dark and stormy night, but don’t let that fool you.’ 

Aziraphale blinked. “Did you just…make that up?” 

“Well, I’m paraphrasing, but yeah.” 

“What? Just off the top of your head?” 

“Yep.” 

“Just like that?” It seemed outrageous. How did he _do_ that? He wasn’t _allowed_ to do that. He had his cooking. He didn’t need to be able to make things up, too. Aziraphale hadn’t even started his new hobby and already Crowley was better at it than him. He’d done a whole sentence. Without even trying. 

Crowley lifted the cup of stone cold tea and sniffed. “Is there booze in this?” he said. 

“No. Of course not.” 

“Ah.” Crowley set down the cup and unfolded himself from the couch. “I see where you’ve been going wrong.” 

“What? Where? How?” 

He slunk over to the drinks cabinet. “Alcohol,” he said, bending over in a somewhat deliberate fashion. His jeans seemed even tighter than usual. “_I’ve_ been drinking.” 

“What’s that got to do with anything?” 

Crowley fished out a couple of old fashioned glasses and reached for the Glenmorangie. “Every time you see a film,” he said, sloshing out two generous measures. “And there’s a writer in it, he’s always got a glass of something on the go, next to the typewriter. Cigarette, too, back when everyone still smoked.” 

Aziraphale gave a small gasp. “Of course. Do you think that’s where I’ve been going wrong?” 

“Definitely.” Crowley sat back down on the couch and handed Aziraphale the glass. “Here you go, Hemingway. Get your laughing gear around that. You’ll be banging out a Booker winner in no time.” 

Aziraphale sat back and sipped, relieved. “It’s not that it’s _difficult_,” he said, after a while. “I just…I can’t seem to…you know.” 

“No. What?” 

“Begin. I can’t seem to begin. Where does one…begin?” 

Crowley sucked his bottom lip. “At the beginning?” he said. 

“That’s not helpful.” 

“Yeah, but that’s where most books start. In the beginning was the word. Call me Ishmael. Sing, oh muse. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It is a truth universally acknowledged—” 

“—that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. Yes, I know how _books_ work, Crowley. You don’t need to explain them to _me_.” 

“I’m just trying to help.” 

Aziraphale sighed and squeezed his knee. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He glared at the typewriter. It seemed to be making matters much more difficult in some indefinable way. “I just don’t know why this is so complicated. I’ve spent my life surrounded by books. I should be able to write one. Especially a romance novel. It’s character driven, for God’s sake. All I need is a hero and a heroine…” 

Crowley stifled one of his disturbingly jaw cracking yawns. “Why?” 

“What do you mean, why? That’s how romance works. There’s a man, and a woman…” 

“Or a woman and a woman,” said Crowley. “Or a man and a man. Or an angel and a genderflexible snake demon whose legs look fantastic in high heels.” He wriggled closer on the couch. “Did you know that snakes have two penises?” 

“I’m not putting you in my romance novel, Crowley.” 

Crowley set down his drink and straddled Aziraphale’s lap. “Go on. I could be your muse.” 

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, trust me.” Could muses get writer’s block? 

“Go on,” said Crowley, wriggling suggestively. “Let me inspire you. Something fresh. Something new. You can write about it in your sex notebook.” 

Aziraphale put down his glass and devoted his attention to Crowley. Snakey hips, whiskey eyes, boozy tongue and long, lovely thighs braced either side of him. He could get lost between Crowley’s thighs and frequently did, wrapped in endless legs with Crowley’s crossed heels digging into the small of his back. 

“Now?” he said. 

Crowley stripped off his t-shirt. “Why not?” 

“No, nothing. It’s just that you’re always telling me I should find a new hobby. I’m trying to find one right now and _this_ is when you slither out of the kitchen and start wanting to play ‘What have I got in my trousers?’” 

“What?” said Crowley, nibbling on Aziraphale’s ear. “You don’t want to play?” 

“I didn’t say that.” You never knew exactly what was going on in Crowley’s trousers. One time Aziraphale had confidently identified an erection beneath the denim only to discover that Crowley had thrown him off the scent with a cucumber, and that there was something quite different going on downstairs. Something soft and hot and so delightfully accommodating that Aziraphale still couldn’t look a cucumber sandwich in the eye without blushing. 

Crowley raised himself up on his knees and popped open the button of his fly. His jeans looked suspiciously bulky. “Any guesses?” he said. 

“Oh come on. At least one of those is a cucumber. You can’t actually…” Aziraphale trailed off as the trousers came down, shimmied over slender, mobile hips. “Oh. Apparently you can.” 

Crowley grinned. “Yep.” 

“And what am I supposed to do with two of them?” 

“Use your imagination,” said Crowley, pushing him down on the couch. “And both hands.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * It was actually both of them. There’s a reason Good Cop, Bad Cop is such a time-honoured interrogation tactic. Just when the plants thought all was lost and that someone was definitely going into the waste disposal, Aziraphale would come along and tell them how well they were doing, and so – unbeknown even to himself – helped crush their battered spirits even more effectively than Crowley at his most viciously herbicidal.
> 
> ** This was the reason why the Brontë sisters’ pseudonyms sounded like names no actual human being would ever have, courtesy of a being who had once thought A. Ziraphale was a suitably inconspicious human alias.
> 
> *** Henry Fielding had felt the same way. During a particularly port-soaked shit-talking session, Aziraphale had come up with the title for Shamela. He had also had a lot to do with the author’s second marriage, mostly by quietly radiating angelic disapproval until Fielding found it in his conscience to ‘do the right thing by the poor girl.’


	2. Soupy Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archangel Michael makes Crowley an extraordinary offer. Aziraphale attempts to write a romance novel.

Crowley was having one of those days.

Nothing major. Nothing hugely, world-endingly dramatic, but one of those days full of the kind of mundane annoyances that he’d always specialised in visiting on humanity, and some that he actually had. Aziraphale had snored. Crowley’s phone had updated itself overnight, causing the entire operating system to shit the bed. When he went to crack an egg into the pan for breakfast the yolk had been bright red.

“I think that means it’s fertilized,” Aziraphale had said, and Crowley – far queasier than a demon had any right to be at the sight of a bloody egg – had said no, a _beak_ means it’s fertilized. Then tried to Google it to prove his point and remembered that, oh yeah, the fucking phone would now take the best part of the day updating its operating system just to cope with the new updates. And it was all his own fault because the Digital Revolution had seen him scampering through a veritable Eden of low-hanging fruit, occasionally straight-up giddy at the opportunities it had afforded him. Dial-up. Those had been the days. All that pornography, and all those people getting really, really angry when their wank material didn’t appear in a timely fashion. Wrath and Lust in one handy package. Good times.

But now he was older and grumpier and his stomach was acting up. His attempt to start the day off right with a little slap and tickle had gone awry, when he’d failed to hold in a sneaky fart and Aziraphale had overreacted. Obviously demon farts were quite _potent_, but the gagging and the streaming eyes had been a bit much.

Crowley left Aziraphale frowning behind a typewriter and went out to satisfy his sudden craving for something soft and cold, namely an ice cream with a Flake in it. For old times’ sake, he wandered down to St. James’s Park, and hadn’t even reached the corner of Birdcage Walk when he guessed that something was up.

His sense of smell, which had always been keen, seemed to be on high alert lately. He had the added advantage of being downwind, and the angel who was following him seemed to have no idea how they’d given the game away.

Because it was an angel. Whoever it was, they smelled like Heaven, which is to say they didn’t really smell of anything at all. To Crowley’s sharp nose and even sharper tongue, the smell of Heaven was instantly recognisable by its blankness, a sort of olfactory void that yawned among the pungent and interesting scents of crowded humanity. Of course, Aziraphale didn’t smell like Heaven any more. He’d been down here far too long for that, and had a penchant for custom colognes besides, but the other angels did. The ones who hadn’t gone native. The ones he had to worry about.

His heart was hammering and his stomach in open revolt, but he was determined to play this cool. He bought an ice cream and settled on a bench near the end of the Blue Bridge. In a way it was quaint that they were keeping up this Cold War business. Yeah. That would work. Good opening line.

A slender figure in a pale suit approached. Crowley revised his opener.

“Hello, Michael,” he said, as she perched stiffly on the bench beside him. “Sorry about the towel.”

She gave him a quick, tight smile. “Mr. Whippy?” she said, glancing at his ice cream. “I thought yours was the strawberry lolly. Or was it the other way around?”

Crowley shrugged. “What can I say? Can’t seem to get enough of dairy products these days. Don’t know what’s up with that.”

“Apparently it’s very bad for the environment,” said Michael. “Dairy.”

“Well, _people_ are very bad for the environment, but hey, I’m sure your lot will figure out how to get rid of those, too, sooner or later.”

“I would have thought that was more the province of your lot, actually.”

“What lot?” said Crowley, lounging more deliberately and trying not to look like he wasn’t clenching his buttocks around a nervous fart. “This is my lot,” he said, gesturing to himself. “Me. My whole lot. Me and…”

Michael nodded. “Aziraphale,” she said, with a polite, chilly specificity that did something truly horrible to his guts. “And how is he?”

“Oh, you know. He’s…Aziraphale.” Crowley took in the tight mod lines of her suit, the piled up quiff of her hair and wondered what it was about angels that made them so fond of the nineteen fifties. “He’s learned to do the Twist.”

“The Twist?” She politely arched her eyebrows, but there was a glimmer of innuendo in her voice that suggested maybe she knew not so much about the Twist as _The Switch_. Oh shit. They’d sent the clever one.

“It’s a dance,” said Crowley. “You know. That thing you don’t do on the heads of pins.”

“Yes,” said Michael, and flicked her eyes over Crowley’s figure. “Well, he’s evidently feeding you.”

“What do you _want_, Michael?” said Crowley, plucking the Flake from his ice cream. “What are you gonna do? Haul me off to Heaven and hose me down with holy water?”

“As a matter of fact I was going to offer you a job.”

“Mrrf?” said Crowley, partly out of surprise and partly because he was trying to negotiate the fragile shards of partially frozen chocolate that filled his mouth as he bit down on the Flake.

Michael tilted her head slightly. She had the sharp nose and bright eyes of an intelligent bird of prey. “Is that a yes?”

“No,” said Crowley. “That’s a noise you make when you’re trying to eat a Cadbury’s Flake and someone who recently tried to kill you offers you a fucking _job_.”

“So…no?”

“Yes. No. _No!_ Job? What kind of services could a demon possibly render for Heaven, for hell’s sake?”

“Freelance contracts, mostly.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses and blinked at her.

“There has been something of a paradigm shift upstairs,” said Michael, slipping into the flat yet curiously abrasive parlance of Heaven. “In the light of recent events.”

“Uh huh.”

“And following an interdepartmental mindshare the current thinking is a robust approach to outsourcing.”

“Again,” said Crowley. “In English.”

“Look,” said Michael. “It can’t have escaped your attention that there are some very unpleasant humans currently running things down here.”

“There have always been unpleasant humans. And your lot never did a damn thing about it. Let’s face it, the Smite button on God’s computer must be as pristine as it was on the day she first took the keyboard out of the plastic wrapping.”

“Things are changing Crowley. If things carry on as they are, there won’t be anyone left to worship us.”

“I thought that was what you wanted?” said Crowley. “Armageddon?”

“We had orders. We were—”

“—only obeying them? Where have I heard that before?”

Michael narrowed her eyes. Yeah. That one landed.

“Didn’t do much about _him_, did you?” said Crowley. “Nary a thunderbolt from heaven on that score. In fact, as I recall, your man in the Vatican at the time was quite keen on him.”

“Heaven has nothing do with the appointment of popes,” she said, although Crowley had heard differently. “I would have thought you were an expert on the subject, given your…experiences in the field. You’ve always been very keen on popes, haven’t you?”

“No. Not _keen_. It was just work. It wasn’t like he needed much corrupting in the first place, anyway. Show him a succubus with a fifteenth century strap-on and his eyes were out on stalks.” He saw the expression on her face and smiled. “There it is.”

“What?”

“Outsourcing. Mindshares. Paradigm shifts. All the bloodless bullshit language in the world can’t wipe that look off your face.”

“Personal feelings don’t enter into it,” said Michael.

“Oh, they do. Because right now you’re looking at me like I’m shit on your immaculate shoe.” He glanced down at her feet. “And you’re trying to bring spats back. Well, that’s…bold, I suppose.”

“Shit or not,” she said. “This is a job. Upstairs has actioned a more hands on approach from now on, and that includes outsourcing punitive action.”

“Right. And I’m the punitive action, I assume?” said Crowley. “What am I? Rent-A-Plague?”

“Or curses. Temptations. I’m told these are very much your area.”

“And you’d like me to what, exactly? Hop over to America and make the president shit blood?”

She tilted her head again.

“Amateur night,” said Crowley. “Besides, he probably already shits blood. Have you seen the way he eats? His arse is probably more haemorrhoid than actual rectum at this point.”

“It’s all very toilety with you, isn’t it?” said Michael. “Shit. Toilets. Very bum centric.”

Crowley got up from the bench. “Congratulations,” he said. “That’s the first thing I think I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth that sounds like something an actual person might say.”

She stood up and offered him a rectangle of shining white light. “My card,” she said. “Think about it.”

“Oop, no,” said Crowley. “There you go. You’ve gone all Bret Easton Ellis again.”

“It’s an extensive renumeration package, Crowley. And there are benefits.”

He spun on his heel as he walked away. “Yeah, no,” he said, and couldn’t resist giving his crotch a grab in her general direction. “I’ve heard about Heaven’s benefits package, thank you. _I_ might want kids one day.”

* * *

It didn’t take a snake’s tongue to know that Aziraphale’s magnum opus was not going well. The inside of the bookshop smelled like a distillery.

“How’s it going?” said Crowley, because he had to, even though Aziraphale’s tie was askew, his blond curls were even more tangled than usual and his nose was scrunched in an expression of drunken distress. He’d obviously taken the whole Hemingway ‘Write drunk, edit sober’ advice a little bit too seriously.

When Crowley approached the typewriter, Aziraphale flung himself bodily across the thing. “No, don’t look,” he slurred. “It’s awful. I hate it. You will _never_ read this. Is crap.”

“Oh dear,” said Crowley, gently prying the typewriter from Aziraphale’s octopus grip. “So I take it you overdid the drinking?”

Aziraphale flopped back on the couch, head back. “It was your idea, Crowley.”

Crowley glanced at the typewriter. There was a single word on the page. “Hmm. _The._ Well, it’s punchy. To the point.”

“I don’t like it.”

“No, it’s very good,” said Crowley, spotting another empty bottle down the side of the couch. _Fuck me_, he mouthed silently, and gave Aziraphale a consoling pat on the knee. “A lot of good books start with _The_. Solid start.”

Aziraphale moaned. “But what if it’s supposed to start with A?” he said. “Or It.” He heaved himself off the couch and lurched to his feet, stretching his back. “Been sitting at that thing for hours. My back is so stiff…oops…gone all spinny now.”

He rocked on his heels, went into a slow, ungraceful pirouette and then finally gave up fighting his urge to hit the floor. He went down in a slow spiral, as though holding himself up with one wing, and then landed starfish fashion on the large rug in the middle of the rotunda.

Crowley wandered over, whiskey bottle in hand. “So you put a bit of a dent in the old Laphroaig then?”

“That was after I finished the Glenmorangie,” said Aziraphale, pathologically honest even while shitfaced. “Felt like I was getting somewhere at first. Hadding…having all kinds of ideas…was great.” He giggled. “Waiting for the muse. Amusing myself. Practically a muse, you know.”

“Is that right?”

“Mmhm. Principality. Angel of Inspiration.” He pointed to himself with both fingers. “That’s me. Can’t even inspire anything more than _the_. Whas that about, d’you think?”

“Do you think it might be something to do with the fact that right now you’re just a cloud of whiskey fumes with an angel somewhere in the middle of it?” said Crowley.

“It might, yes.” Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment and then appeared to think better of it. “Oh no. Floor’s moving. I am _so_ sorry about this. I’m afraid I’m absolutely fucking trousered.”

“I know. Sober up. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

“Oh, thank you, darling. That would be _lovely_.”

A moment later, Aziraphale had scraped himself off the rug and joined Crowley in the linoleumed strip of back room where the kettle was kept.

“I just had an unpleasant experience in St. James’s Park,” Crowley said, squeezing out the teabag.

“Oh no. Did one of the pelicans try to eat a pigeon again?”

“No. It was Michael.”

“Michael? As in the archangel?” Aziraphale frowned, a little bit of booze still obviously sloshing around in his synapses. “_She_ wasn’t trying to eat a pigeon, was she?”

Crowley moved back into the bookshop itself, acutely conscious that Aziraphale’s presence had introduced a very large cloud of alcoholic fumes into a very small space. His stomach gurgled and he tasted resurgent ice cream in the back of his throat. “Actually,” he said. “She tried to offer me a job.”

“A job. What kind of job?”

“Cursing. Plagues. Temptations. Apparently Heaven is now outsourcing.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I wasn’t aware they were insourcing,” he said. “They’ve been significantly light on the whole divine intervention thing for the past two thousand years.”

“That’s what I said, but times have changed. Or so says Michael.”

“Well, that’s a worry,” said Aziraphale, taking a careful, purse lipped sip of his steaming hot tea. “Did she threaten you?”

“Nope. Just gave me her card and told me to think about it. And I thought about it.”

“And?”

“I told her to stick her job up her arse,” said Crowley. “I’d rather lick U-bends in Hell than work for that bunch of anally retentive stiffs. I’m retired. Out of the game.”

“Good for you, darling,” said Aziraphale, following it up with a distinctly unangelic burp. “Oh. Excuse me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley spotted a cardboard sign hanging from a statue. His statue. It seemed Aziraphale had managed to write more than one word in his alcoholic attempts to invoke the muse. In a somewhat sloshed version of his usual impeccable penmanship, he’d written YES, THEY’RE DOING EXACTLY WHAT YOU THINK THEY’RE DOING.

Aziraphale caught him looking and leaned sideways to glance at the sign. “I stand by it,” he said, unrepentant. “And the opinion of every customer who walks into this shop. Everyone says the same thing about that statue.”

“What? That they’re wrestling?”

“Nobody ever says they’re wrestling, Crowley. Nobody.” Aziraphale smiled serenely at the statue. “I like it. I think it’s rather erotic.”

“So that was it, was it?” said Crowley, determined not to take the bait. “Your literary debut. The word _the_, and more rude commentary on my favourite sculpture?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m afraid so. I don’t understand why I can’t do this. I am literally made of love. Writing a romance novel should be as easy as sneezing to me.”

“Well, have you looked up how to do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I want to cook something,” said Crowley. “I look up the recipe.”

“Crowley, writing a novel is nothing like cooking. You have to have metaphor, theme, leitmotif. And that’s even before you get into the nitty gritty of style and perspective. You can’t just throw everything into a pot and toss it in the oven for twenty minutes. It’s just not done.”

“Right,” said Crowley, reaching for his phone. “Or you can down a bottle and a half of whiskey and write _the_.” The phone had finally updated. “Look, I know this is a lot for you, but these days we have this thing called An Internet—”

“—which you were swearing at for several hours just this morning—”

“—that wasn’t the internet. That was an operating system issue. I know you don’t understand these things, but—”

“—yes, thank you. I do own a computer, you know.”

“There are tech billionaires almost twenty years younger than your computer,” said Crowley, showing Aziraphale the search window. “Look. This is the magic box, okay? You can stuff any question in the world in there. Like ‘how do I write a romance novel?’”

“Oh, please. Everyone knows the internet is an absolute sink of misinformation.”

“That’s not true,” said Crowley. “Most of it is pornography. And cats. Lot of cats on the internet.”

“Do I want to know what the cats are doing?”

“Getting their heads stuck in crisp packets. Beating up chihuahuas. Being startled by pop-up toasters. Just cat things.”

“That sounds hilarious,” said Aziraphale. “Let’s look at that. Oh, do you think we should get a cat?”

“No,” said Crowley, and showed him the search results. _How to write a romance novel_. Pages and pages and pages of it. “There you go.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That seems…a lot.”

“There’s a lot of advice out there.”

“Maybe I should try science fiction instead,” said Aziraphale, whose idea of science fiction had stopped with Jules Verne. “Or something a bit more weighty. Serious.”

“Angel, apply yourself.”

“I am applying myself.”

“You’re not. You don’t _commit_. Every time something gets a little bit scary or complicated you’re all ‘You go too fast for me, Crowley,’ and start babbling about picnics and cats.”

“That’s not…” Aziraphale sighed. “Not completely unfair.”

“It’s like you said. It’s the creative impulse. You’ve got all this creative energy inside of you and it needs an outlet. Otherwise you’re just going to carry on…you know.”

“Filling the bookshop with half-baked porn?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale sighed again and set down his teacup. “I’m not like you, Crowley. I don’t have your creativity. The things you come up with. Like the M25. That was a work of diabolical genius…”

“…aww,” said Crowley, genuinely touched.

“No, that wasn’t a compliment. That was a very bad thing you did, but you did a bloody good job of it. You have ideas. All sorts of ideas. You….” Aziraphale gave a small shudder. “I hate to use the phrase, but you…ugh…_think outside the box_.”

“Only because I had to,” said Crowley. “What else was I going to do? Grind away like all the other low level grunts in Hell? Spend decades convincing a monk to have a swift one off the wrist? Oh, it’s craftsmanship, they say, but it’s tired. It’s boring. Why tempt a monk when you can tempt a pope? Think big. Think stupid. Get ridiculous. Have _fun_ with it. That’s what it’s all about in the end, isn’t it? Fun?”

“And love, too,” said Aziraphale. “I think love is very important.”

“There you go then. There’s your conviction. Go back to your typewriter and tell the world why love matters.” 

* * *

Morning had broken.

Not quite like the first morning, at least not from Crowley’s perspective, because on that particular morning he’d been a snake. Neither had blackbird spoken, on account of birds not having been invented yet. There had just been a new large star burning in the sky, and Crowley’s initial fear had been quickly dispelled by just how much he enjoyed the feeling of that hot new starlight on his scales. On that first morning, Crowley had discovered basking. And he saw that it was good.

On this morning, Crowley – who was a lot less snakey these days – rolled over, stretched out an arm in search of an angel, and found himself alone in bed. Aziraphale was missing, and so was the wardrobe.

The wardrobe belonged to the same suite of bedroom furniture as the bed itself, a testament to the staying power of Edwardian carpentry. The bed – designed to withstand the erotic excesses of obese Gilded Age plutocrats – had held up incredibly well. Other than the odd hand shaped scorch mark on the headboard, you would never have guessed that the bed had had two supernatural entities fucking in it. Similarly, the wardrobe bore no evidence of midair collisions or other celestial sexual experiments. It was a very no-nonsense kind of wardrobe, rooted and solid. Not the kind of wardrobe that just upped and disappeared.

In its place was a set of French doors. Bright morning sunlight flooded the bedroom, and beyond the voile curtains Crowley could see the swaying, lightly wind ruffled leaves of potted plants.

He gave a low hiss of delight, wriggled into his pyjama pants and flung open the doors. He’d done it. Aziraphale had done it again. The roof terrace was back, even lovelier than before, with sunwarmed flagstones and planters full of flowers and shrubs that didn’t even have to be reminded to do as they were told. There was even a lemon tree that was – impossibly – in both fruit and flower at once. Drowsy bees droned – pie-eyed on pollen – in between fragrant stalks of lavender and buddleia. A nearby planter yielded up the scents of applemint and lemon scented geraniums, perfuming the air to the point where central London seemed a million miles away.

Crowley drifted through a decorative terrace and gawped. Aziraphale was sitting at a chess table, apparently alone, although for some reason Crowley knew that Aziraphale was playing chess with a bee. On some level Crowley knew that this knowledge – along with the fact that Soho suddenly smelled lovely and not a bit like traffic fumes and old takeaway cartons – meant that he was probably dreaming. But on another level he couldn’t bring himself to care, because between him and Aziraphale was a large, sunken Jacuzzi tub. It was blue and bubbling and the water was steaming invitingly.

“Holy shit,” he said. “You did it. You really did it.”

Aziraphale, bishop in hand, didn’t look up from the chess table. “Did what, dear?”

“You dreamed me a hot tub, you magnificent bastard.”

Aziraphale made his move and then glanced over at the bubbling tub. “Apparently,” he said. “Probably something to do with falling asleep to the sound of you whispering the word ‘Jacuzzi’ in my ear. Again.”

“I love it,” said Crowley. “It’s fantastic. What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m playing chess.”

“Yes, but with a bee?”

“Why not? I’ve never played chess with a hivemind before. It’s very interesting.”

“That’s all very well,” said Crowley. “But why aren’t you naked?”

Aziraphale should have been naked. There was a hot tub and this was definitely one of those dreams that should have involved nudity. Fun nudity, not the anxiety dream kind. Instead he was going head to head with an apiarian Boris Spassky, and Crowley – whose sleeping arousal was rapidly bleeding into the dream – felt that this was missing the point.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” said Aziraphale. “Help yourself to drinks.” He waved a hand to a small cocktail bar that had appeared next to the garden wall. The ice bucket was tartan.

“Am I in your dream right now?” said Crowley.

“Or I’m in yours.”

“No. If this was my dream we’d be in that Jacuzzi right now, sitting on the jets and fondling each other.”

The bee knocked over the angel’s king and buzzed off. Aziraphale blinked at the chess board for a moment and got to his feet. He walked across the water without getting his feet wet and wound his arms around Crowley’s waist. “I think I’d like to dance first,” he said, his voice growing fainter as the dream faded. “You never take me out dancing.” As he surfaced into the thinner, greyer layers of sleep Crowley’s arousal gave way to the kind of rumbling, wordless yearning that he recognised from his brief spell in Aziraphale’s body. Aziraphale was asleep, but Crowley could _hear_ his body, feel its fierce, thoughtless hunger and the answering growl in his own.

Cock. Angel cock. Thick, hard and fleshy.

Crowley moaned himself awake, his head full of it. Even before he reached out he knew that Aziraphale was hard for him, because Aziraphale always was. He pushed his hips backwards into the curve of Aziraphale’s body, warm and soft and…oh, not so soft after all. He felt it thick and solid against the cheek of his arse and once again felt the snarl of a lust so powerful that it left him light-headed. Aziraphale – still half asleep – pulled him closer, his lips on the back of Crowley’s shoulder, fingers skating over the bone of his hip.

“Oh my,” he said, his voice cracked with sleep as he trailed a single teasing fingertip up the length of Crowley’s cock. “Having sexy dreams?”

“No.” Crowley reached between his legs, pulled Aziraphale’s erection between them and brought his knees tight together, squeezing Aziraphale in the hot space between the tops of his thighs. “I was trying to, but you were playing chess with a bee.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. Oh yeah. Keep doing that.”

Aziraphale stroked with all of his fingers now, his touch still light. Sometimes he handled Crowley like a manuscript so precious that it had to be kept away from light itself, while other times his blunt-tipped, manicured fingers left bruises in Crowley’s hips. Crowley was in no doubt about what he wanted this morning. “Fuck me,” he said, grinding his arse into the curve of Aziraphale’s lap. “And don’t get all celestial about it. I need _flesh_.”

He drew in his pelvic floor muscles. His balls retreated into his body, leaving the skin to fall into neat, soft folds between his thighs. He felt a hungry space open inside him, and the sensation of his cock telescoping, _concentrating_ into one tiny point of single-minded pleasure was almost enough to make him come there and then.

Crowley twisted in Aziraphale’s arms and straddled him between the sheets. Both of their mouths tasted of sleep but it only added an edge to Crowley’s already ravenous hunger. He wanted sweat, spit, breath, hair, fluids, the eager, dirty slap of flesh on flesh. He rubbed himself against Aziraphale, furred lips stroking the shaft, drawing a wide eyed “Oh,” of surprise from the angel.

“I made you something for breakfast,” said Crowley, gyrating.

“Right,” said Aziraphale. “Well, my mouth is up here, so…” He beckoned. “Up you come.”

Already breathing hard, Crowley scrambled up the bed and planted his knees either side of Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale grabbed his hips, pulled him down and plunged straight in. No finesse. No fuss. None of his usual table manners. Just a swirl of tongue, a smothered moan and an obscene sounding slurp.

Crowley clutched the headboard, caught off balance by the intensity of the sensation. He always remembered that it felt good, but somehow his body always forgot _how_ good. Aziraphale’s mouth fastened on his clit, bestowing a messy, suctioning kiss of greeting before pushing out his tongue and starting to flick, circle and suckle in earnest. The fingers of one hand dug into Crowley’s thigh, the tips of the other teasing and tickling the entrance, making Crowley almost painfully aware of the unaccustomed space inside him. Both hands. Aziraphale was just lying there with that fat, rock hard erection, not even touching himself, because even when he was flat on his back with a ferally horny demon sitting on his face, he was somehow still a perfect gentleman.

“Please,” said Crowley. He could feel his orgasm building already, deeper in his pelvis than normal. Strong but subtle clutching ripples. He wanted something to _squeeze_, to clench around. “Please. I need you. I want you. I need your cock.”

Aziraphale’s fingers dug deeper into his thigh and he glanced up, his lips wet. “I’m not going to fuck you until you’ve come,” he said, in a slightly firmer version of the voice he used every day. “So you may as well.”

“You love this, you lazy beast,” said Crowley, shuddering against his face. “Served up on a plate and delivered directly to your mouth…oh yeah, there, _there_…” Two fingers inside him now. They crooked knowingly, as if beckoning Crowley towards climax. Aziraphale’s tongue flicked and licked and lashed, and then his little finger nudged gently against the slick middle of Crowley’s arse. It pushed, delicate as an insinuation, and Crowley let out a long, desperate wail, already starting to come, because it was _Aziraphale_, after all. It was his oft-crooked little finger, with that stupid fucking angelic pinky ring he never took off. So prissy, so fussy, so silly, and yet that finger knew the exact right moment to slide up Crowley’s arse and make him come so hard his eyes crossed.

Aziraphale wiped his face on the inside of Crowley’s trembling thigh. “Darling,” he murmured. “So lovely.”

Crowley wriggled back down the bed, straddled Aziraphale’s hips and sank down on him. The initial resistance made him moan out loud with relief, but he knew that the hungry space inside him was only temporarily satisfied. He hung there for a moment, head back, eyes closed, muscles twitching around the blunt intrusion. He straightened his spine, swaying gently, one hand resting on the soft rise and fall of Aziraphale’s rounded belly.

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley opened his eyes.

Aziraphale lay stretched out beneath him, his body a cherubic pink and white solidity that seemed to beg a pair of wings, even when they weren’t visible. Even now, lying damp and despoiled between Crowley’s thighs, with his panting mouth and the heaving hollows of his throat indecently wet, Aziraphale still managed to look angelic.

Crowley circled his hips, drawing in his muscles. Angel, yes, but flesh, too. A sexy abundance of it that made Crowley’s morning cravings stretch their jaws and lick their fangs in appreciation. Solid shoulders, broad thighs, plump pink nipples. He reached down to pinch one, twisting gently as he writhed and wriggled. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed, a moan erupting from his half-open lips.

“Dirty little angel,” Crowley said, starting to ride him slowly, up and down, deep, slippery slides. “Wallowing around in the sins of flesh.” He spread his legs wider, grinding down and making Aziraphale cry out. “Sweaty, sticky, filthy…” He scraped his nails over the angel’s chest, leaving faint red and white tracks. “All those thousands of years of being such a good little boy, playing by the rules…” Crowley moved faster, Aziraphale’s fingers digging deep into his hip.

“This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” said Crowley. “All along. All those centuries of dancing about, because you were too good an angel to say the words. To open your mouth and say ‘Crowley, sit on my cock and fuck my brains out.’”

Aziraphale licked his pant-parched lips. “You are filth. I adore you.”

Crowley grinned and slowed, rocking with shallow movements of his hips. “Say it,” he said, wanting to hear the words in that well-bred, occasionally peevish voice. “Go on.”

Aziraphale arched beneath him. “Sit…” he said, his eyes dark and avid. “Sit on my cock…” Harder now. Faster. “…and fuck…fuck my fucking brains out.” He reached behind him to grab hold of the headboard, the bed now shaking beneath them. The tuft of golden hair beneath his arm was dark and damp. “Don’t stop…please…don’t you dare stop.”

Stopping wasn’t really an option at this point. Crowley started to come again, in slow, deep, spine-tingling waves. His hips, which he’d never had the best control of in the first place, developed a life of their own, pounding down on Aziraphale, who had now settled into a breathless chant of _fuck me fuck me fuck me. _Aziraphale’s belly jiggled under the assault of Crowley’s hips and thighs and it was this, again – the reminder of exactly _who_ he was fucking – that gathered the wide ripples of Crowley’s climax and pulled them in, tight and pulsing.

“Oh God…” Aziraphale gasped, his mouth falling open in a silent, softening cry.

Crowley drooped over him, holding him inside. His lips found Aziraphale’s and his tongue coaxed liquid back into both of their mouths. Aziraphale tipped him over onto his back and ran his hands over Crowley’s thighs, as though already mapping out the bruises he would kiss and apologise for later. Still hard, he pushed gently, a farewell thrust before parting, and his breath caught in a slight gasp. “Oh dear,” he said, his voice low and throaty. “I’ve made such a mess of you in there.”

“Mmm…” Crowley wrapped his legs around him, not wanting to lose him just yet. He drew his still twitching muscles around Aziraphale, his crossed heels settling into the two wide dimples above the angel’s round arse.

“You know, you’re going to have to let me go eventually,” said Aziraphale, even as he pushed once more. He smelled delicious, of sex and Crowley and clean, briny angel sweat.

“I don’t see why.”

“Well, it’s going to be very difficult for me to run a bookshop if I’m balls deep in you the whole time, isn’t it?”

Crowley laughed and let him up. Aziraphale slipped out and rolled over onto his side. There were few sights quite as spectacular as an angel with a brain full of oxytocin. He was in his element, a chubby little supernova of pure love. “I don’t know what I did to deserve that,” he said. “But please tell me, so that I can do it again sometime.”

“You were trying to dream me a hot tub,” said Crowley, glancing at the wardrobe. It was still there. “Wanted to let you know I appreciate the effort.”

“Interesting. Remind me to make a note of that.” Aziraphale just couldn’t help himself. He was already looking around for his sex notebook.

“It’s downstairs,” said Crowley, stretching and popping his own downstairs into its more familiar configuration. “In the kitchenette.”

“Right. After you got creative with the clotted cream that was _supposed_ to be for scones.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Oh, I wasn’t,” said Aziraphale. “Not remotely. I was just curious as to what’s got into you lately. A while ago I thought I’d been abandoned for your culinary adventures, but your libido seems to have grown even more teeth than before. Sort of like a shark.”

“Gotta keep swimming, gotta keep eating,” said Crowley, and rolled out of bed. “Speaking of, I am fucking _starving_.”

He walked naked into the kitchen. The windowbox full of worried herbs had exploded. A small hedge of rosemary and thyme now partly obscured the window, and a sudden burst of aggressive root growth had shattered the pottery trough, spilling soil over the kitchen floor. Evidently the angel had enjoyed himself. Crowley turned on the tap, partly because he needed to wash his hands and partly to assure himself that the water hadn’t accidentally turned into a Premier Cru.

“You did it again,” he said, hearing light, bare footsteps behind him. “This time we’re going to need a new windowbox.”

“Wasn’t me,” said Aziraphale. “You specifically requested non-celestial. I was very grounded in the physical sensations that time.”

“Well, it’s not me, is it?” said Crowley, heading for the fridge. He flung it open and peered inside, trying to figure out what it was that his rumbling stomach craved the most. Cold chicken, runny brie, salami, and fat haldiki olives with pickled garlic. “You’re the one who always gets all botanical with it. Not me. I just set fire to things when I come, like a normal person.” His mouth watered. He unwrapped a delicatessan package full of prosciutto and tore off a salty, filmy strip, chewing as he unscrewed the lid of a new jar of artichokes, extra fancy in a rosemary infused olive oil.

“Since when were there roses growing in here?”

“Roses? What are you on about?”

“There are _roses_ growing in this windowbox.”

“Bollocks,” said Crowley, peeking out from behind the fridge door. Aziraphale, cloudlike in his dressing gown, was admiring a dark red rose from a bush that had miraculously sprouted forth among the herbs. Not unusual in itself, although Aziraphale’s reflexive horticultural miracles usually followed his preferred colour palette of white, gold and fifty shades of beige.

“This wasn’t me,” said Aziraphale. “This was _you_.” He leaned in and breathed in the scent of the flower. “This is your colour. The colour of lust…temptation. It used to be black, when you poured it into me, but not any more. It’s red now – this same shade of red, so deep it’s almost black.” He turned away from the window and joined Crowley at the fridge. “What on earth are you eating?”

“Artichokes. Want some?”

“For breakfast?”

“Why not?” said Crowley. “Ooh, is there any ice-cream?”

“Ice-cream and artichokes? Please don’t tell me you’re experimenting with strange flavour combinations again. I thought you were over your broccoli and meringue phase.”

Crowley ignored him. He’d just hit paydirt in the shape of several of those theatre-interval sized Haagen Dazs tubs. Upon seeing them, Aziraphale acted mildly scandalised for all of about five seconds before agreeing that there was no real reason _not_ to eat ice-cream for breakfast. They spread his fluffy dressing gown out on the floor like a picnic blanket, and sat with their backs to the open freezer, enjoying the chill while they ate.

“This is anarchy,” said Aziraphale, pressing cold lips to Crowley’s bare shoulder. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Angel, what are you talking about?”

“This. Sex and ice cream for breakfast. Wandering around naked just because we can’t be bothered to get dressed. It’s all so…so…”

“So what?”

“Wonderful,” said Aziraphale, eyes shining. “Perfect and wonderful and a million times better than I ever could have imagined. I keep thinking that it’s all just a beautiful dream and one day I’m going to wake up and it’ll all be back to the way things were before. Opposite sides. Heaven and Hell and…and knowing that I loved you and not being able to do a damned thing about it.” He sighed and traced the edge of Crowley’s ear with his fingertip. “I have _everything_, Crowley. Everything my heart ever desired. Which is probably why some absurd part of me can’t stop thinking that there are going to be consequences.”

Crowley groaned. “Really? Why?”

“Because. It’s not as though I’ve been an exemplary angel, is it? I cocked it all up on day one with the flaming sword, for goodness sake. I’ve lied, disobeyed, performed demonic acts on your behalf, and fornicated until I can no longer feel my own toes. God knows how I haven’t fallen a dozen times already.”

“Exactly. God knows. It’s ineffable.” Crowley fed him a spoonful of macadamia nut brittle and sealed it with a kiss. “Is this just you feeling guilty because you ate demon pussy?”

“Demon p…? I…no…no. Absolutely not.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “_Pussy?_”

“What else are you going to call it?”

“A cunt?” said Aziraphale, effectively unhinging Crowley’s jaw for the space of several seconds. “What?” he said, in the face of stunned silence. “Haven’t you ever read Richard Hoggart’s introduction to _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_?”

“No,” said Crowley. “But I might fucking have to now. Do you mean to say you just laid there and let me wriggle all over you? Made me wring one mild little phrase of dirty talk from your angelic lips, when you could have been pouring unalloyed filth into my ear that whole time?”

Aziraphale licked his spoon and smiled. “Not the whole time,” he said. “At least, not while you were sitting on my face.”

“You are…” Crowley shook his head, torn between delight and exasperation. “I don’t even know what you are right now.”

“I like to think I have hidden depths.”

“Six thousand years, Aziraphale. Six thousand years and I still can’t even _begin_ to imagine what it must be like to be sick of the sight of you.”

“Age cannot wither me,” said Aziraphale, dipping happily into the mango and raspberry ripple. “Nor custom stale my infinite variety.” He offered Crowley the spoon. “Is this my new variety, do you think? Sitting on the kitchen floor, eating ice cream in the nude? Swearing like a docker? Recklessly dangling my participles?”

“I love you so fucking much I can hardly stand it.”

* * *

On Friday they went to a new place that had opened up in Southwark, coincidentally closer to the site of the old Globe – the one where Crowley had rescued _Hamlet_ – than the new one. They ate on the terrace, overlooking the river. Aziraphale always had fish on Fridays and had polished off pan fried scallops, and a plate of lemon sole with samphire and a creamy white wine sauce. Crowley, whose appetite for flesh remained undiminished, had snarfed his way through a bresaola starter and then ordered the steak (“Blue. Just throw it quickly past a very hot fire.”) and was now deep in his third glass of an exuberant Mendocino Malbec.

“Don’t you just love that view?” he said, admiring the dome of St. Paul’s.

“From the bridge? Oh yes. Poor dear Christopher. He so wanted his boulevards and piazzas, didn’t he?”

“Grand vistas,” said Crowley. “Out with the medieval, in with the baroque.” It hadn’t happened, of course. After the fire Londoners had simply returned to the ruins and rebuilt, on the same hugger-mugger maze of a street plan as before, foiling Wren’s plans for the grand approach he’d felt his cathedral needed. “Did you ever go to that bakery?” he said.

“Farriner’s? Yes. Wonderful venison pies. Could hardly keep pace with the demand at one point.”

“Is that right?”

Aziraphale sipped his Chablis and nodded. “My dear, it was hectic. Of course, I inspired him to get a second oven installed and…” He trailed off, suddenly realising what he’d said.

Crowley stared at him.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, looking across at the opposite bank of the Thames. The one that had been on fire for the best part of a week. “Oh, _shit_.”

“It…it was a while ago,” said Crowley. “I wouldn’t worry about it. They fixed it, didn’t they? Got it looking lovely. Nice cathedral and everything. Weird buildings. You’d never know it had all been on fire at one point. People screaming. Jumping into the river—”

“—oh my God—”

“—relax, angel. You’re talking to the guy who accidentally relocated the Antichrist – and the last battle between Heaven and Hell – to a chintzy fucking village in Oxfordshire. You just…started the Great Fire Of London. Maybe.”

“Oh, well. That makes me feel so much better. Thank you.”

“Speaking of pudding…” said Crowley, accepting a dessert menu from a hovering waiter. “More wine, angel?”

“Mm. Better not. Probably time to switch for the night.” Aziraphale gave a cursory glance at the cocktail menu. “Could I have an Old Fashioned, please? Extra cherry. Thank you _so_ much. Darling?”

“Nah. I’m all right with this for now,” said Crowley, still nose deep in the Malbec. It was an extensive cocktail menu, and usually he’d have been on it like an angel on a cupcake, but his stomach was still acting up. It was a good thing they’d managed to get a seat on the terrace, he thought, otherwise they’d have had the restaurant to themselves. He’d been quietly wrangling gas all night, and – downwind of Crowley – a planter full of striped petunias was looking decidedly ill. As if to underscore Crowley’s intestinal distress, a nearby busker was farting out _Let’s Face The Music And Dance_ on a tuba.

“They have dairy free ice cream,” said Aziraphale, perusing the dessert menu. “What’s that, do you suppose? Soya?”

“Probably.”

“They have all kinds of complicated milks these days, don’t they? Soya. Almond. Oat.”

“How the hell do you milk an oat?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale laughed, the same full-throated, scrunch-nosed, head-back laugh from that night in Berkeley Square. It was also – Crowley now knew – the same laugh that bubbled out of him every time they were rolling around between the sheets, drawing maps of each other’s erogenous zones with their tongues, and marvelling at their own stupidity that they hadn’t done this _sooner_.

“Milk an oat,” said Aziraphale. “That’s a good one.”

“You can have that, if you like. Put it in your novel.”

“I like it, but I wasn’t planning on making it a romantic comedy.”

“You should,” said Crowley. “I like the funny ones.” He upended the wine bottle, emptying the last of the Malbec into his glass. “How’s it going, anyway? Did you read up on the advice?”

“I did. It’s interesting, actually. I always thought rhythm and structure were things that just happened, if a writer was competent enough, but apparently these days it’s all about the beets.”

“Beets? What? Like the little red vegetables that you pickle?”

Aziraphale laughed. “No. Beats. B-E-A-T-S. Like a heart. Or a drum. They’re plot points in a story. You see, the first beat is when your characters meet. The second is when they look at one another and decide that they’re definitely not going to fall in love with one another, and the third is when…”

“…they fall in love anyway,” said Crowley, trying to remember exactly when that had been. The Blitz? Or was it the Bastille, when Aziraphale had flicked his eyes over Crowley, muttered ‘oh good Lord’ and looked at him like he was dessert?

“Then they’re blissfully happy for a while,” said Aziraphale. “Or at least they _think_ they are, but there has to be something not quite right about the relationship just yet.”

“What? Like one of them being so boneheaded that he doesn’t realise that ‘run away with me to Alpha Centauri’ is an actual, stark-naked, screaming declaration of love?”

Aziraphale gave him a coy, tipsy look. “You’re not funny.”

“I am. I’m hilarious. I make _you_ laugh.” Crowley took a long slurp of his wine. “So what happens next? After the boneheaded part?”

“That’s just it. The thing that’s not quite right comes back to haunt them, then there are lots of hurt feelings that require one of them to demonstrate their love in a grand gesture.”

“What? Like asking them to run away with them to Alpha Centauri?”

“No. A normal gesture. A human gesture. A serenade. A flowery proposal. Oh, and something called a boombox.”

“A boombox?” said Crowley, wondering if it was possible to love someone this much without actually exploding.

“Yes. You’re supposed to stand under a window with one. I’m not sure why. Anyway, it all starts with something called a meet-cute. I’m not keen on the term, but it does what it says on the tin, as they say. They have to meet in some cute or amusing way.”

“Such as?”

“They both drop something,” said Aziraphale. “At the same time. Then they bend to pick it up, you see. At the same time.”

“Mmhm. With you so far.”

“And then they accidentally bang their foreheads together.”

Crowley narrowed an eye. “Well, that sounds painful.”

“It’s very popular, I’m told. Anyway, it’s more about the connection than the actual injury. Oh, and they have to meet somewhere charming or memorable. Like a beautiful park or something.”

“Or a garden,” said Crowley.

“Exactly.”

“A beautiful day, in a beautiful garden. And then it unexpectedly starts to rain. And one offers the other their umbrella…”

“Yes! Crowley, you’re a genius. This is gold.”

“And one turns to the other and says, ‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon…’”

Aziraphale caught on and pursed his lips. “Crowley, that was not a meet-cute.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No. That was humanity’s Fall from Eden, which, by the way…”

Crowley waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Mea culpa. Tell me something I haven’t heard for six thousand years, Mr Oops-I-Might-Have-Accidentally-Burned-London.” He aimed a lopsided smile in the direction of the waiter who had brought Aziraphale’s cocktail and come to take their dessert orders. “I’ll just have the ice cream, I think. The normal kind. I can’t be doing with all this soya business. Angel?”

“I’ll have the sticky toffee pudding, please,” said Aziraphale, all drunken sweetness. “I’m afraid I’ve been coveting that ever since I saw one come out of the kitchen earlier.” He always had the brightest smiles for waiters, and not just because they were feeding him. When Aziraphale smiled at you and said thank you, you knew you’d been thanked. Not just thanked, but blessed. He might not have been the best behaved angel in the Heavenly Choir, but out of all the so-called beings of love that Crowley had ever encountered, Aziraphale remained the one who left him with a shred of faith that in this – at least – God had done something _right_.

“Did I ever tell you,” Crowley started to say, remembering that lovely day in Eden, before the first rain started to fall. “What it was? The connection? The moment when I first—”

“—well, fancy seeing you here.”

Crowley looked up. It was Michael.

Aziraphale, who suddenly looked like he wanted to sober up in a hurry, blinked nervously. “Hello, Michael.”

“Aziraphale,” she said. “How are you? And your…snake?”

Crowley hissed. It was tacky, but it seemed appropriate under the circumstances.

“We’re very well, thank you,” said Aziraphale, guardedly. “How’s everything in Heaven?”

“Oh, you know. Heavenly.” She flashed them one of her tight, brief smiles. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your….date, but I just wanted to ask Crowley if he’d had some time to think about our offer?”

Crowley peered over the top of his sunglasses at her. Oh, she thought she was sowing discord, did she? The absolute amateur. “Yeah,” he said. “I did, actually.”

“And?”

He stretched an arm over the back of his chair. “Well, initially I hated the idea,” he said. “But then, as I had more time to think about it, I came to realise that my initial hatred was only a mere glimmer compared to the conflagration of absolute loathing that consumed me when I actually had time to…you know…consider your offer.”

She gave him a long, tired look. “So that’s a no?”

Crowley picked up his wine glass and bared his teeth in a suitably serpentine grin. “Fuck off, Michael.”

“I’ll leave you to your dessert, gentlemen,” she said, and gave them a very deliberate once over that made Crowley’s stomach knot and gurgle. “Nice to see you both looking so well.”

“Yes, you too. Lovely surprise…nice to see you…how wonderful…” said Aziraphale, going into anxious auto-witter mode. He drained his glass in a single gulp as she walked away. “What the hell was _that_ about?”

“Not sure,” said Crowley. “Yet.”

“She’s trying to twist you. That’s what she’s doing. I’ll bet you any money.”

“Twist?” Crowley frowned, assaulted by the sudden mental image of Gabriel and Michael twisting it up to Chuck Berry, like John Travolta and Uma Thurman in _Pulp Fiction_. “What is that? Is that a Heaven thing?”

“No. It’s a gangster thing,” said Aziraphale. “Like when law enforcement are trying to prosecute the Mafia and they find the weak link that will inform on the others and then…then they twist them.”

“Flip,” said Crowley. “You mean flip.”

“Yes. I do. Thank you. Flip. She’s trying to flip you.”

“Nnh, don’t think so,” said Crowley. “For my money, I think she’s just stirring the shit. That’s why she came over and asked me in front of you. It’s like we always said – they’ll try and use us against each other.” He wriggled in his chair, uncomfortable. His waistband felt incredibly tight. “‘Looking well.’ What do you suppose she meant by that?”

“‘Nice corporation you’ve got there. Be a shame if anything happened to it.’ That was a threat, Crowley.”

“Or a fat joke.”

Aziraphale frowned. “And how did you arrive at that conclusion? You’re a rail. There’s nothing of you.”

“You think? I feel like I might have put on a few pounds.”

“Crowley, you spent six thousand years living on alcohol, fear and occasional bites stolen off the side of my plate. Yes, you eat more than you used to, and yes, you’ve put on a little bit, but frankly you needed to. You were looking gaunt.”

“Exactly. Not well. Now I look _well_. For which read ‘wow, you’ve packed it on since Armageddon.’” He drained his glass, annoyed. “Do all your lot upstairs have food issues?”

“_They_ have food issues?” said Aziraphale. He gave himself a small shake, like he was trying to fluff out the feathers of his wings. “I’m sorry. I was hopeless. I just sat there like a lemon, didn’t I?”

“She was talking to me.”

“Yes, and I should have said something. I just…” He sighed. “She’s literally got eyes everywhere, that one. I was sure she could see everything that was going on in my head. If I’d opened my mouth I probably would have just started babbling madly about rubber ducks.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” said Crowley, patting his wrist. “You kept it together. Can’t be easy knowing there’s a file with your name on it in the TO SMITE pile.”

“File?” said Aziraphale. “Oh, my dear. I imagine I have a whole filing cabinet to myself by now.”

“I know the feeling. Except in my case it’s not a filing cabinet.”

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, then asked anyway. “Do I want to know _what_ it is, exactly?”

Crowley shook his head, thinking of the bubbling puddle of melted demon on the floor of his old flat. “Not really,” he said. “Not if you’re still looking forward to that sticky toffee pudding.”

* * *

It was so hot that Aziraphale wasn’t wearing a tie.

He wore a creamy pale yellow shirt, a powder blue seersucker waistcoat and no tie. His top button was open, and Crowley couldn’t stop staring at the patch of bared throat like it was the key to some kind of mystery. For centuries he’d amused himself by thinking up a variety of outlandish celestial nightwear – long Scrooge style nightgowns with floppy caps, tartan pyjamas, bunny slippers as fluffy as the down on Aziraphale’s wings – but, as with so many things about Aziraphale, the truth had turned out to be unexpected.

The only things Aziraphale wore in bed were his reading glasses. This was a being who still owned bathing suits with collars, but as soon as he’d grasped that bed was a place for doing things without any clothes on, he’d embraced it. He slept in the nude, starfished in a tangle of duvet and Crowley, his body as warm as a rock in the sun.

Other than occasional brief appearances in a dressing gown, he now seemed to have two default states – either fully, fussily clothed or cheerfully naked. The open collar of his shirt was an aberration, and far more fascinating than it had any right to be. Crowley, who was taking the expression ‘farting around the bookshop’ a little too literally, couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Aziraphale, who had been nose deep in a pink paperback with a bare-chested pirate on the cover – ostensibly for ‘research’ – lowered the book and frowned. “You know,” he said. “I really can’t stand the word _ministrations_. It’s just so…soupy.”

“Soupy?” said Crowley, wondering for the millionth time how a creature prone to such brainfarts could stand the things that Heaven did to language.

“Minestra. A kind of chunky soup. Comes from the Latin – to administer. Something to do with the way the soup was passed out in the household. From a central pot.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

“Right. Minestrone.”

“Exactly. Ministrations, minestrone.”

“Yeah, you’re right. That is quite soupy.” Crowley shifted on the couch and unfastened his fly button. His belly felt like he’d tried to swallow a deer. “Have you actually written anything yet?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m still thinking of a title.”

“You don’t need a title. Just have a working title. I know – call it _Soupy Love_.”

Aziraphale frowned and sighed. “No,” he said. “It’s no use. I can’t concentrate. I’ve been on edge ever since Michael showed up at the restaurant.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Crowley. “It’s just angels being angels. No big deal.”

“There’s no point playing it cool, you know.”

“Who’s playing? I’m not playing. I _am_ cool.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “You’re not.”

“Am.”

“Are not.”

“I am. I am icy. I am chill. I am…”

“Flatulent?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley removed his sunglasses, the better to glare at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Aziraphale. “You’ve been farting like a carthorse for weeks now. I think you might have Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It gets worse with stress, I’m told. So…” Aziraphale removed his glasses and folded them neatly on the desk. “We should probably have a conversation about the source of your disquiet before you start killing all of the plants.”

Crowley raised one cheek from the sofa and squeezed out a long, saxophone blast that ended in a squeak.

“Very mature,” said Aziraphale.

“You _love_ me,” said Crowley, when he’d finished laughing.

“For my sins.”

Crowley sat up and accidentally got a whiff of it. “Oh. Shit. That is a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Just a bit, yes.”

He got up and poked himself in his swollen belly. “Do you think I’ve put on weight?”

“I told you. A little. Go and weigh yourself if it bothers you that much.”

“Yeah, I didn’t really want to step on your bathroom scales,” said Crowley. “I think they might be a valuable antique. Do they even work?”

“I have no idea,” said Aziraphale. “We had a bitter disagreement back in 1958 and haven’t spoken since.”

Angels, thought Crowley. Angels and their weird food issues. He wondered what Michael had going on. She’d obviously never had a disagreement with a bathroom scale in her entire life. And yes, the spats were a choice, but if he had to admit it – under torture – Crowley would own that she _did_ pull off the drainpipe lines of that mod style suit.

“She’s very trim, isn’t she?” he said, thinking aloud.

“Who?”

“Michael. Looks like she goes to the gym. Is that her thing, do you think?”

“What are you talking about, Crowley?”

“Know thine enemy, angel,” said Crowley, getting up to pace. What had he _eaten?_ Never mind a deer. It felt as though he was trying to digest bricks. “You lot. Angels. You all have your little foibles, don’t you? Sandalphon likes weird dental jewellery, Gabriel likes Italian tailoring and other people’s eyeballs.” He rubbed his belly. “And you like cake. And pornographic copulation with demons.”

“Not demons. _A_ demon,” said Aziraphale, piously. “And it’s not pornographic if you love one another.”

Crowley ignored him. “What’s her thing, do you think? Her quirk. Her foible.”

“Michael doesn’t have foibles,” said Aziraphale. “She’s a total workaholic. Glued to her phone, even when she goes off on her spa days.”

“Spa days?”

“Yes. She’s into all that mud and massages stuff. Green face masks made of avocado and things. Aloe vera.”

“There you go,” said Crowley, triumphant. “That, my plumptious, counts as a foible.” There was a sharp stabbing pain above his hip. “Ow. What the fuck was that?”

“Darling, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you really do look very bloated. Have you thought about going gluten free?”

“Gluten free?”

“Yes. You might have a wheat intolerance.”

Crowley squeezed out a sneaky fart and glared. “I am a _demon_,” he said.

“And? Does that somehow negate you having special dietary requirements?”

Crowley turned queasy and contemplated the reaction in Hell if someone discovered that he – Anthony J. Crowley, hard drinking, holy water resistant despoiler of angels – had wandered into the cafeteria and bought a slice of gluten-free quiche and a cup of chamomile tea. While Aziraphale’s little Esther Williams routine had bought Crowley some much needed cred downstairs, a gluten-free organic Crowley still had the ring of something would have them giggling down in the malebolge for centuries.

“We are not having this conversation,” he said.

“I’m just saying…”

“Well, don’t say. It’s a slippery slope, Aziraphale. You start with gluten sensitivity and the next thing you know you’re one of those really annoying vegans who never stops banging on about how their body is not a graveyard and wearing a shirt that says Yes, You Can Live Without Cheese. I have an image to maintain, and my image is red wine, red meat and rock n’ roll. Not Birkenstocks and a fucking beard. What’s next? I’m gonna start smoking a pipe?”

“You smoked a pipe in the sixteenth century,” said Aziraphale. “And you had a beard.”

“Yeah. Back when it was sexy.”

Aziraphale, feeding a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, raised an eyebrow. “That beard wasn’t sexy.”

“It was.”

“Mmmnope,” said Aziraphale, and stared at the typewriter again. He sighed and sat back. “Oh, it’s no use. I can’t think of a single thing in this state. I keep turning it over and over in my head. That _look_ she gave us when she said we were looking well.”

“Do you want some cheese?” said Crowley, who had suddenly realised that no, he couldn’t live without cheese. Especially not the dolcelatte he had in the fridge upstairs.

“What?”

“I’m gonna eat some cheese,” he said. “And meat. Lots of meat.”

He wandered upstairs and gazed into the fridge for a while, before attacking the dolcelatte and wondering if he wanted to get drunk. Or maybe just crack open a bottle of champagne and lure the angel upstairs for a bit of afternoon delight. Then a steak. Red hot loving, red meat, insane amounts of alcohol. That was his area. He was good at it. Or could have been, if only his stomach would stop playing up.

Crowley grabbed the champagne and went back down to the shop. Aziraphale stood in the doorway, looking anxiously out onto the street. More angels? Or perhaps another Waitrose bag full of Fifty Shades novels?

“What’s up?” he said, and then Aziraphale turned, revealing what he’d really been up to with his head hanging out of the door. There was – for the first time in over a decade – a cigarette in his hand.

“Aziraphale, what the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” said Aziraphale, rather waspishly. “You mentioned pipes and I had one of those random cravings.”

“_Please_ don’t do this,” said Crowley. “You remember the last time you gave up.”

It had been one of the few times in his long existence when Aziraphale hadn’t radiated divine sweetness. Instead he’d been a catty patchwork of old nicotine stickers and barely suppressed rage. Trust humans to discover and popularise a drug so horrible that it turned even a literal angel into a cranky, gum-chewing monster.

“Humour me just this once,” said Aziraphale. “My nerves are in shreds.” He took a small, schoolgirlish drag. Even when he had smoked he’d never been good at it. He’d sit there with his sherry, listening to Schubert and letting half the cigarette burn away on the edge of the ashtray. Not like Crowley. Crowley had been _great_ at smoking. He’d swaggered about the place sucking a constant stream of them to ashes, like an off duty rockstar making the most of the backstage rider.

A sweaty summer breeze delivered a wisp of smoke to his nostrils, coating the back of his sensitive tongue. His stomach flipped, rolled and twisted, despite the fact that his inner Keith Richards was already frantically patting down his pockets in search of a light.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re all right. And look on the bright side. At least you’ve stopped manifesting.”

“Just as well,” said Aziraphale. “I’d hate to think what I might manifest in this mental state.”

“Giant blueberry muffins?”

“Very possibly.”

Aziraphale blew a delicate stream of smoke towards the street. Crowley tried to step out of the way, but it got him again. “That stinks,” he said.

“I know.”

“Is it nice?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, still smoking.

“Then why aren’t you stopping?”

“Because that’s how nicotine _works_. And take that censorious look off your face. You used to smoke ten times as much as me. I just used to have a couple of an evening. _You_ spent the back half of the twentieth century looking like you were permanently on fire.”

“Sometimes I was,” said Crowley, plucking the cigarette out of the angel’s fingers, unable to watch another nervous, behind-the-bike sheds puff. “Give that here.”

Determined to show Aziraphale how it was done, Crowley took a deep, don’t-give-a-fuck drag.

His mouth was suddenly full before his brain had time to catch up with how bad it tasted. Crowley dropped the cigarette, doubled over and reenacted a notorious scene from _The Exorcist_. *

“Oh, my dear. Are you all right?”

Black dots danced at the edge of Crowley’s vision. His sunglasses fell off, landed in the puke and melted. The paving slab was beginning to smoulder around the edges and Aziraphale discreetly miracled away the puddle of demonic vomit before it could melt through the stone and start causing mischief on the Underground. “I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said to someone who had stopped to gawk. “He hasn’t been well.”

Crowley gagged.

“Are you okay? You’re not going to do it again?”

“I’m fine,” said Crowley, spitting out a mouthful of post-vomit drool. He brushed off the fussing angel. “I’m all right. Bit dizzy.” He got another whiff of cigarette smoke and retched. “No, get away from me. You smell like an ashtray.”

He wobbled back into the bookshop, making a beeline for the couch. Aziraphale followed, bearing a welcome glass of iced water. “Crowley, you really should see someone about this,” he said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A doctor.”

“And say what? ‘Hi, I’m a six thousand year old demon who can change sex and sprout two dicks. Mind giving me the once over? There’s a distinct possibility that my eldritch anatomy might break your human brain and cause you to go full Randolph Carter in the corner of a white rubber room, so…you know. Just do the best you can with that.’”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Crowley, there is a time and place for hyperbole. You’re not _well_. You’re bloated and flatulent and now you’re—”

“—throwing up before breakfast without an actual hangover being involved. Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t…oh.” There. That was a thing, right? Being sick in the mornings? “Oh shit.” Crowley heaved himself off the couch and staggered towards his phone on the desk.

“Lie down. What are you doing?”

“Googling my symptoms.”

Aziraphale reached for the phone. Crowley jerked it away.

“Stop it,” said Aziraphale. “I may not be completely au fait with modern technology, but I specifically remember you telling me that that was something you should never do on the internet. Your exact words – ‘Don’t do it, because it always tells you that you have an inoperable brain tumour.’”

“Yeah, not in this case,” said Crowley, staring at the screen.

“Why? What does it think is wrong with you?”

“Sensitivity to smells,” said Crowley. “Weird food aversions slash cravings. Vomiting. Nausea. Dizziness. Bloating.” He adjusted his waistband and winced. “I should bloody coco. I’m busting out of my Balenciaga here.”

“Crowley…what does it _say?_”

“Uh, it says that human vasectomies have a fifteen per cent failure rate,” he said.

Aziraphale looked blank.

“Doesn’t say anything about the failure rate of angelic vasectomies, but that might be something we have to look into.”

There it was. The penny had finally dropped.

“By the way,” said Crowley. “Angelic Vasectomies is totally the name of my new punk band.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * No, not the one with the crucifix. Thankfully.


	3. Knocked Up With A Feather?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley seeks out a Satanic gynecologist and traumatises a minor character who has surely put up with enough of his shit already. Aziraphale hatches the beginnings of A Plan.

There was a bakery box of macarons on the desk. The little meringue cookies had so far done a superb job of surviving in Aziraphale’s presence, but now he edged towards them, overwhelmed with a sudden urge to make them extinct.

“That’s impossible,” he said, trying not to stare at Crowley’s open top button and the slight but unfamiliar bulge where there used to be nothing but a bony hipped concavity. “I told you. I’m not in the baby making business. Besides, aren’t you…male?”

“Not really,” said Crowley. “Are you?”

“No. Not really. I only got this thing because it made my trousers hang better. Strictly speaking I’m not sure I’m even a mammal.”

“There you go then. I’m probably not. A mammal, that is.” Crowley patted his stomach. “Could be anything going on in here.”

“Like Irritable Bowel Syndrome?” said Aziraphale, trying not to sound too hopeful about it. “You’re not pregnant, Crowley.”

“I could be,” said Crowley, glancing around the bookshop in a way Aziraphale knew only too well, because he’d caught himself doing the same thing on more than one occasion. The scene of many possible divine misconceptions. The couch. The desk. The table. The floor. The bit behind the Travel section. “You’ve stuck it in—”

“—every hole you have and some you had to invent for fun. Yes. I know. We’ve covered that.”

“Did we? Because that doesn’t accurately represent the insane amount of banging that has gone on in this bookshop.”

“Crowley, _please_ listen to me. You were more likely to get pregnant that time when you did the thing with the cucumber. At least that had seeds. _I’m_ sterile. All angels are sterile. God doesn’t…”

“Doesn’t what?” said Crowley. “Make mistakes? Play dice? Move in mysterious ways? All of the above?”

Aziraphale narrowly resisted the urge to start stress eating in earnest. “So what are you saying? You’re ineffably pregnant?”

“Well, I was going to get pregnant, it would be ineffably, wouldn’t it?”

Aziraphale reached for the macaron and stuffed half of it into his mouth in a single bite. For once sugar didn’t make him feel better. “Shit,” he said. “That does sound like us.”

“Yup,” said Crowley, and sprinted off to the downstairs lavatory, where he was noisily ill.

Consequences. The needlepoint sampler part of Aziraphale’s mind was already busily cross-stitching some improving maxim to that effect. Aziraphale angrily ignored it and hurried to the lavatory door. There was noxious green smoke coming from beneath it.

He knocked. “Darling? Are you all right in there?”

“Hrk,” said Crowley. He gasped a couple of times and flushed. When he opened the door he was worryingly pale. “I’m fine,” he said, and see-sawed his hand in a comme-ci-comme-ca gesture. “Your toilet, though? Not so much.”

He wobbled off back towards the couch. Aziraphale brought him some more ice water.

“Well, that just does it,” Aziraphale said. He wasn’t completely sure what was going on, but he was very clear on what he had to do next. “Of all the times I’ve worried about getting you into trouble…_this_ kind of trouble never crossed my mind. We’ll just have to get married.”

“Pfflp?” said Crowley, swallowing very carefully.

“No, don’t shut down and start making your noises,” said Aziraphale, lowering himself to one knee.

“No, no, no…get up. Aziraphale. I’m _serious_.”

“So am I,” said Aziraphale. “There’s only one thing to do and I’m going to do it. Crowley, will you—”

“—_no_.”

Aziraphale trembled. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no,” said Crowley, standing up. “I’m not going to marry you just because I’m pregnant. Is it eighteen forty-seven in here or is it just me?”

“Crowley, I will not have you becoming an unwed mother.”

“Oh, not just me, then.”

“If you’re pregnant,” said Aziraphale, getting to his feet. “Then it’s my fault. My responsibility. And I will stand by you no matter what.”

Crowley gave him a long, incredulous stare. “They’re going to kill us,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it. Anyway, before you start getting all dramatic, let’s just be sensible about this. I’m sterile and you’re part reptile. It’s impossible. It’s absurd.”

“Lots of things are absurd,” said Crowley, draping himself over the desk chair and reaching for the macarons. “Like raining fish. Armageddon happening in Oxfordshire. Angels and demons picking out toasters together. Falling asleep and filling your bookshop with late twentieth century porn…” He licked crumbs of meringue from his fingertips and frowned. The bad frown. The one that meant that something uncomfortable had just occurred to him. “_You’ve_ stopped manifesting.”

“So? What does that prove?”

“Your creative impulse,” said Crowley.

“My creative impulse,” said Aziraphale. “Has been channelled into producing a _novel_.”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale’s notes. “Which you have written one word of. And you’re still brainstorming the title.”

Aziraphale reached over and snatched the notebook. “That doesn’t mean I haven’t been working. Creatively.”

“Or,” said Crowley, swallowing a burp. “Your frustrated creative impulses have been…” He prodded himself in the belly button. “Answered.”

“_No_, Crowley. Are you sure it’s not just trapped wind?”

“No. I know this body. I’ve been in it for six thousand years. And it’s never behaved like this before. I’m farty and queasy and short-tempered. I sleep all the time. Everything smells weird. I have a strange taste in my mouth, none of my jeans fit…” He reached for another macaron. “I can’t stop stuffing my face, and I have the sexual appetite of a…of a demon.”

“You _are_ a demon.”

“Okay, a horny demon,” said Crowley, and wriggled in his seat. “A really horny demon.” Aziraphale could barely believe what he was seeing, but Crowley’s gaze slithered over to the couch. Crowley had a thing about that couch. It had – he’d confessed – been the scene of old sexual fantasies, ones where their alcoholic evenings had got out of hand and ended with Crowley’s jeans on the floor and his sunglasses falling off the end of his nose as they…oh dear. The exact same fantasy that was clearly unspooling inside of Crowley’s head right at this very minute. His eyes looked like the windows of a burning building.

“I don’t suppose…” he started to say, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“Absolutely not. How can you think about sex at a time like this?”

“Yeah. See? That’s not normal, is it?” said Crowley. “I’m at the mercy of my rampaging hormones here.”

“This is all based on nothing but conjecture,” said Aziraphale. “Isn’t there a test you can do or something?”

“_Yes,_” said Crowley, and snapped up a pink and blue box of a type that Aziraphale vaguely recognised from the pharmacy aisle of Sainsbury’s. He opened it, tossed a small plastic object onto the desk and opened out the instruction sheet.

“Let me see,” said Aziraphale, picking up the plastic thing. It looked like a disposable thermometer. “What do you do? You put this in your mouth?”

“No,” said Crowley, swatting it away. “You have to pee on it.”

“Pee on it?” Aziraphale had a flashback to the time he’d briefly shared a body with a part time dominatrix. Madame Tracy, née Marjorie Potts, had been quite a woman of the world, even by the standards of a six thousand year old entity who had spent several decades living nextdoor to a Soho bookshop where the shelving sections were labelled things like Breathplay and Rubber.

Crowley got up and drained his glass of water. “I reckon I can squeeze a few drops out,” he said, and took the thermometer thing off into the now traumatised downstairs lavatory.

While he was gone, Aziraphale attempted to familiarise himself with the instructions. It seemed fairly straightforward. One line meant not pregnant. Two lines meant pregnant. And that he’d accidentally impregnated a demon with God only knew what kind of monster offspring, and that the wrath of both Heaven and Hell was coming their way very shortly. So…no pressure.

“Well?” he said, when Crowley sashayed out of the bathroom with the thing in his hand. “Are you? What does it say?”

“Not sure,” said Crowley. The little window where there were supposed to be lines was completely black. “What do you suppose _that_ means?”

“Uh…”

The testing stick suddenly burst into flames. Crowley dropped it on the parquet and they both watched as it melted into a puddle of bubbling goo not entirely dissimilar to a sticky toffee pudding.

“Ri-ght,” said Crowley, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t think these things are built to handle demon piss.”

“I imagine few things are.”

“True. Even the urinals in Hell struggle to cope sometimes.”

Aziraphale returned to the instructions. “Maybe you’re not pregnant enough for an accurate reading,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“It says two weeks after a missed period…whatever that is. Seems like if you try to use the test too soon it…”

“It what? Turns black, catches fire and melts?”

“Well, no,” said Aziraphale. “But it does say it won’t work. And I think we can safely say that it didn’t work. If you are pregnant it would probably be helpful to determine _when_ you got pregnant.”

Crowley adjusted his waistband and grimaced. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Did we cover the whole ‘insane amount of banging’ part of the picture?”

Aziraphale smiled and snapped up his notebook from upstairs. “Isn’t it nice when these things come in handy?”

“Please tell me that’s not your sex notebook.”

“It is. I told you, I like to be thorough.”

“It’s practically a disorder at this point. You know that, don’t you?”

Aziraphale ignored him and flipped through the pages of neat, bullet pointed notes. “Here we are,” he said. “Face sitting, cunnilingus, vaginal intercourse.”

Crowley visibly curdled. “Vaginal intercourse? Do you have to make it sound so steri…” He stopped himself in time. “Sorry. Bad word choice. That was tactless.”

“Yes, well. Apparently not _that_ sterile.”

“Let me see,” said Crowley, leaning over. He peered into the pages of the diary and shook his head. “No. I don’t think that was it. I definitely remember feeling weird before then.”

“Maybe it was the other time,” said Aziraphale, flipping the pages. “In the bookshop. With the cucumber.”

“You make it sound like the world’s filthiest game of Cluedo.”

“It more or less is. Except there’s only one suspect – me. Oh, wait…”

“What?” said Crowley.

“That time – when you woke me up and sat on my face. Now that I think about it, you’re right. You may very well have been pregnant already.”

Crowley narrowed a large, yellow eye. “Almost afraid to ask about this one.”

“Herpetology,” said Aziraphale. “Female snakes are generally more sexually aggressive than the males, but especially when they’re carrying a clutch.”

Crowley went white. “A…a clutch? I think I need to lie down.”

“Yes, do,” said Aziraphale, steering him over to the couch. “And put your feet up. We don’t want your ankles to swell. I know I need to do a lot more reading on the subject, but I seem to remember that swollen ankles are a Very Bad Thing.”

“Never mind my fucking ankles,” said Crowley, poking his stomach again. “Are you telling me there could be more than one in here?”

“I’ve no idea. Assuming there’s even one in the first place. Are you sure you didn’t just eat something that disagreed with you?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. It’s a long list of suspects. You have to admit you’ve expanded your dietary horizons recently.”

“I told you. I’m a demon,” said Crowley. “I don’t _do_ food sensitivities. Anyway, how could food sensitivities make me crave artichokes with ice cream for breakfast? Answer me that, angel. That’s a legitimate pregnancy craving.”

Aziraphale returned to the notebook, determined to be methodical. Obviously there were some encounters more likely to result in pregnancy than others. Oral – no. Manual – no. Intercrural – no. Entirely celestial…probably not? Levitation?

“Do they say you can’t get pregnant if you do it standing up?” he said.

“Nah. I think that’s a myth.”

“What about if you’re hanging from the light fitting?” Aziraphale turned the page. “Oh, wait. No. That wouldn’t have worked. I came between your thighs that time.”

Crowley wriggled hopefully on the couch. “You love my thighs.”

“Yes, I do. But really? Now?”

“Why not? You’re not going to be one of those guys who knocks someone up and doesn’t touch them for the whole nine months, are you? Because that’s not going to work for me. I have needs…”

Aziraphale held up a finger. “Wait,” he said, his stomach sinking. “What about that time with the feather? I came inside you that time, _and_ you were a woman.” An angel’s feather on the bedroom floor. A Boccaccio touch indeed. “Oh my God. Crowley, the _feather_.”

“What about it?”

“There were sparks flying off you!”

Crowley blinked. “What are you saying? You’re telling me you knocked me _up_ with a feather?”

“It’s not outside the realms of possibility. Did you feel anything unusual?”

“What? Other than the usual things you feel when you’re sixty-nining in mid-air with an angel’s feather tickling your tradesman’s entrance?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “The roses,” he said, remembering. “That time when you made an entire rose bush appear in the middle of the windowbox. I told you it was unusual, for you. Your orgasms are usually a whole lot more destructive.”

“I’m fire, baby. What can I say?” said Crowley, getting up off the couch. “There’s only one way to settle this. Give me another feather.”

Aziraphale reached back and plucked another white feather out of the air behind him. “I don’t think you should touch it,” he said. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Stick in there,” said Crowley, nodding to a creeping fig plant that – in his oft-voiced opinion – was not trying hard enough and was currently On Notice. “Into the soil.”

Aziraphale pushed the quill of the feather into the soil.

The fig immediately stopped creeping and broke into a sprint. It surged up the neighbouring pillar, wrapped itself around the railing and burst forth towards the skylight. The light above them turned green and dappled in an instant, leaving them both blinking upwards at the small but vigorous impression of Kew Gardens that had sprouted above their heads.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “If it isn’t a personal question, when they did the…procedure on you, which part did they…you know…snip?”

“Evidently not my wings.”

“Mm. Do you think it’s safe to say that angel feathers might have…generative properties?”

“Um…shut up?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley audibly sucked his teeth. “Would this be a good time to ask about what happened to the other feather?”

Aziraphale gulped. “Probably under the bed,” he said, taking a brief mental inventory of living things that might have been under the bed. Possibly moths, although who knew what happened when a moth made contact with an angel feather? If it had done _that_ to a creeping fig…

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “It was a while ago. Nothing…unusual has happened under the bed, has it? That you know about?”

“What? Like an infestation of wolf-sized carpet beetles?” Crowley paused for an indecent length of time. “Nah,” he said, but he couldn’t help looking up towards the ceiling.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale, after another pause that – under the circumstances – could quite reasonably be described as _pregnant_. “We’ll just…look under the bed.”

“Mhm.”

“After you.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” said Crowley. “Expectant mother, here.”

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. Of course.”

Crowley gave him a humourless grin. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a flaming sword I could borrow, have you?”

“Very funny,” said Aziraphale, and reluctantly led the way upstairs.

He took a deep breath before opening the bedroom door. So far, so good. Crowley was right. If the angel feather had worked any kind of mischief under the bed they probably would have known about it by now. As would the neighbours. They were a broadminded lot, but still bound to be unprepared for an eldritch abomination made of spiders, stray celestial toenail clippings and Crowley’s bright red pubic hairs.

Aziraphale glanced under the bed and let out a sigh of relief. “Nothing,” he said.

“No?”

“Nope.” He straightened up and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I vacuumed under the bed since then. It’s probably in the hoov…oh.”

Crowley had picked up on the implication before the word _hoover_ was fully out of Aziraphale’s mouth. They looked at each other for a long moment, then – by unspoken agreement – Aziraphale stepped out into the hallway and approached the door of the broom cupboard.

“Is there anything…alive inside the vacuum cleaner bag, do you think?” he said.

“Skin?” said Crowley. “Hair?”

“No. That’s dead, now that I think about it. Skin, hair. Toenails. All dead.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Might be spiders, though.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and opened the cupboard door. Inside was a bright red Henry hoover, a cheap but sturdy little vacuum cleaner whose hose formed the nose of a friendly, smiling face.

“Well,” said Crowley, from somewhere behind Aziraphale’s shoulder. “That looks…normal.”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, yeah. Very normal. Totally normal vacuum cleaner. Nothing to worry about.”

“Do you think we should…?”

“…look inside? No. It’s obviously fine.”

“Obviously,” said Aziraphale, and turned around. Crowley, whose voice had been full of relaxed bravado, was holding a walking stick above his shoulder. “What are you…?”

“No,” said Crowley, lowering the stick. “I wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?”

“Wasn’t preparing to beat a divinely misconceived dustbunny spiderbaby to death or anything.”

“I should hope not,” said Aziraphale, confiscating the walking stick. “That cane belonged to Oscar Wilde.”

* * *

As Crowley had pointed out, there weren’t many human medical professionals who dealt with the diseases of demons. After a restless night of vomiting, cramping and farting, he’d wandered into the kitchen, stared into the fridge and wondered at what point in his pregnancy he was going to go full _Rosemary’s Baby_ and start craving raw liver.

And that was when he remembered.

He’d delivered a baby before. Of course, he hadn’t been delivered _of it_, and yes, he’d got the wrong Antichrist, but he remembered thinking – through the blizzard of _oh shits_ and _no no no nos_ – that had filled his mind at the time, that the Antichrist had come into the world in presumably much the same way as the regular Christ. Begotten not created and all that. At some point – and here was the really gnarly bit – there had been a demonic birth, and therefore it only followed that somewhere was a demonic midwife who had made sure that the Son of Satan made it into the world safe and sound and in possession of ten fingers and ten tiny toesy woesies.

While Crowley had no idea which unfortunate demon had had to handle the gnarly stuff down in Hell, he _did_ remember one former nurse who had been positively disappointed to discover that the baby he had brought her had been lacking hooves, horns and glowing red eyes.

Sister Mary Hodges had relocated again.

She had abandoned Oxfordshire for South London, and was now working at St. George’s Hospital in Tooting.

Crowley, who had been lurking in a doorway behind a cleaner’s trolley, slipped out of his hiding place and slunk after her. He could still slink, just about, even with the bloating. He wasn’t ready to start thinking about what was going to happen to his hips in six or seven months time, but neither of them were ready for that just yet. Aziraphale’s eyebrows were already permanently set at that angle that Crowley knew very well was Angel for ‘oh fuck’ and nobody wanted to discuss the implications of what was going to happen if Crowley really was in the family way.

Putting a baby in a demon was almost definitely a Falling level offense, especially for an angel with a rap sheet as long as Aziraphale’s.

He couldn’t think about that. Not right now. He needed answers.

Crowley fell into step with Sister Mary. She gave him a passing sidelong glance and then stopped, turning on her heel.

“Master Crowley?”

“Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” She stepped to the side of the corridor and leaned close, her dark eyes avid with the Satanic fervour that Crowley had always found so profoundly embarrassing. “Is it time? Are we…?” She glanced around furtively. “Are we _going again_?”

“I don’t…” It took him a minute. “Oh. You mean another Antichrist?”

“Yes. A do-over. Are we…”

“…no,” said Crowley. “No, no. Not that, no.”

“Oh.”

“No. This is more of a personal thing.” He leaned back in. “This whole…nursing thing. When did you get back into that?”

“Well, I had to,” she said. “I was doing very well in the private sector for a while, but you probably read about that in the papers.” Crowley feigned ignorance and let her continue. “I did management training retreats. Team building. Paintball.”

“Really?”

“Mm. And then one day some lunatic replaced all the paint guns with machine guns and live ammo. Can you imagine? I mean, what kind of—”

“—absolute maniac. Yeah. Shocking—”

“—so here I am,” she said. “Luckily the NHS is desperate for staff, or I really would have been up a certain creek without a paddle.”

“Right,” said Crowley. “So…in your sort of…medical capacity, do you know anything about…lady business?”

“Lady business?”

“Yes. You know.” He lowered his voice. “Vaginas. And the things that come out of them. People and such.”

“Of course. I’m a nurse. And a trained midwife.”

“Wonderful,” said Crowley, feeling his ears turn hot. “Look, I know this is a bit weird, but I need you to…to look at something for me.”

Sister Mary looked at him for a long moment, then seemed to decipher his embarrassment with very little effort. “Is it your genitals?” she said, with a matter of factness that stunned him.

“Yes,” he said, so relieved to be let off the hook that he could have kissed her. “Yes. It is.”

“Right then. Follow me.” She led him to a small examination room and locked the door. “Togs off below the waist and pop up on the couch,” she said, and twitched the curtain around him.

Togs off? Crowley mouthed, but did as he was told. He squirmed out of his too-tight jeans and awkwardly positioned himself on the couch. There was a sheet of papery stuff that slipped and slid under his arse, and another sheet of the same stuff that he could only presume was there to be some kind of modesty garment. “There’s not going to be a blood test, is there?” he asked. “It’s just that I’ve not been feeling very well and my body fluids have gone a bit…corrosive. I wouldn’t want to ruin all your…needles.” As he covered himself up, he realised that what he had going on down there was probably not fit for purpose, so he made a quick adjustment.

Just in time, too. Sister Mary drew back the curtain and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

“Right, well,” she said. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to look at, but let’s…” Crowley spread his legs. She raised her eyebrows. “Oh. Oh. Well. That’s…”

“What?” said Crowley. “Is it all right? Is it normal?”

“It looks…fine,” she said. “Not what I was expecting, but that will teach me to make assumptions, won’t it? The…um…grooming is an interesting touch.”

“Oh, what? The heart shape? Yeah. It’s a bit kitsch, but he finds it amusing for some reason.”

“Just bring your heels up to your bottom,” said Sister Mary, skimming over the small talk. “And let your knees flop apart. That’s it…”

He felt her gloved fingers slide inside him, and then she gently pressed down on his lower belly with her other hand. “And have you been having unprotected sex?” she asked.

“No,” said Crowley. “Absolutely not. We learned that one the hard way. We’re always very careful to have a fire extinguisher nearby.”

“A fire extingu…no. Never mind.” Her hand continued to explore his belly, and she frowned as she felt something unfamiliar. “What’s _that_?”

“Oh, that,” said Crowley. “Don’t worry about that. That’s always been there. I think it’s a lung or something.”

Sister Mary had that look again. The one that said she wanted to ask, but she had a job to do here, and not a great deal of time in which to do it. “When was your last smear?”

“Smear?”

She removed her fingers. “Smear test, dear. It’s a very important thing for a woman.”

“I’m not a woman,” said Crowley.

“Sorry,” said Sister Mary. “Silly me. Anyone would think I’d never had any sensitivity training. I’m so sorry. What I mean to say is that they’re very important for people who happen to have vaginas.”

“What about people who don’t always have vaginas?” said Crowley.

“People who don’t…?”

“Yeah. I don’t always have a vagina,” said Crowley. “I mean, I can show you if you like, but I’m told it’s a bit surprising.”

“I’m a nurse,” said Sister Mary. “Believe me. There’s nothing I haven’t seen bef…FUCKING JESUS CHRIST!” She leapt backwards, rattling the trolley full of medical instruments. Crowley coughed, dislodging a testicle that seemed to have developed agoraphobia during its brief time indoors, and couldn’t help but smile. Yeah, he still had it. Thought he’d gone a bit soft and fluffy what with being in love and all, but he could still make an ex Satanic nun scream.

“I take it that’s not normal then?” he said.

Sister Mary, who had gone an unpleasant shade of grey, composed herself with some difficulty. “And when was the date of your last menstrual period?” she said, reaching desperately for some internal script as she twitched the paper cover back over Crowley’s crotch.

“My what?”

“Your period. When you bleed. Once a month. From your vagina.”

“Oh. That. No, I’ve never done that before. Ever. Is that normal? That doesn’t seem healthy.”

“It’s perfectly normal,” said Sister Mary. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never had a menstrual period?”

“Not that I know of,” said Crowley. “Look, this is a bit embarrassing, but what I really need to know is…” Oh wow. This was awkward. “Can you get pregnant if you do it while levitating?”

“_Pregnant_?”

“Yes. You can give it to me straight. In your medical opinion. Am I pregnant?”

She blinked at him for a long moment. “Master Crowley, you are…I’m not sure _what_ you are, but if you’ve never had a menstrual period then it’s very unlikely – if not impossible – that you could be pregnant. And that’s leaving aside whatever else is going on down there. Do you…do that a lot?”

“Well…not always,” said Crowley. “I don’t think it’s something you should do too often, you know? Otherwise it’s not as special. I _do_ like the natural lubrication, though. Very handy for quickies. And self-cleaning, too, which is practical. And then there’s the clitoris, of course…”

“Yes, thank you,” said Sister Mary. “You don’t have to carry on like a back issue of _Cosmpolitan_. I’m very well aware of what a clitoris does. Please put your trousers back on.”

“Wait, there’s a thing I can do where I have two penises. I can show you that, if that would be helpful?”

“It would not,” she said, and pulled the curtain back around the bed.

Crowley got dressed and headed back to meet Aziraphale in St. James’s Park. A nice relaxing picnic, the angel had said. Take our minds off things. No sense in tearing your hair out every hour God sends. He’d said all of these reassuring things and more, except none of them were entirely reassuring, because while his lips said ‘Everything his fine,’ his eyebrows went right on saying ‘oh fuck.’

Aziraphale was trying to look inconspicuous. He was wearing a pale straw hat and round sunglasses that made him look Elton John attempting espionage. His feet were bare and the cuffs of his trousers rolled up in a hopeless attempt at nonchalance, because his entire demeanour suggested nothing less agitated than the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof.

Disguises had never been his strong point. The last time Crowley had gone undercover he’d bought a whole new wardrobe, changed sex, endured kitten heels (he always felt he looked better in a higher heel, but none of his Jimmy Choos had been suitable for nannying) and practised for hours getting the refined Scottish accent on point. And what did Aziraphale show up as? A comedy fucking yokel straight out of a Benny Hill sketch, complete with an unconvincing West Country burr and ridiculous teeth. Aziraphale had many virtues, but subtlety wasn’t one of them.

“There you are,” he said, glancing over the tops of his sunglasses. They were _lavender tinted_. Good lord. “I was beginning to give you up for lost.”

“Don’t get rid of me that easily,” said Crowley, settling on the blanket next to him and peering into the picnic basket. There was a small portable telescope discreetly shoved down alongside the Thermos flask. “I managed to find a nurse to give me the once over.”

“Oh?”

“Former Satanic nun. Long story. Oh, you met her that time, remember? The gunfight at Tadfield Manor?”

“So I did. How _is_ she?”

“Gone back to nursing. Works at St. George’s.”

“Clever old you,” said Aziraphale. “Thinking to look her up like that. What did she say? In her professional capacity, I mean?”

“She doesn’t think I’m pregnant,” said Crowley. “But on the other hand she might be flying blind, as regards demon anatomy. She’d never seen the whole…” He gestured to his fly. “…business downstairs before.”

“Business?”

“Yeah. That thing where I can turn it all inside out and pop it back out again? Hadn’t seen that before.”

“Oh. Right.” Aziraphale selected a sandwich and nibbled delicately. “You didn’t show her the thing with the two…did you?”

“No. Actually she was very adamant about not needing to see that.” Crowley reached for the sandwiches. “What have you got there?”

“Egg and cress.”

“Lovely. Is there any cheese? Did you pack the camembert?”

“Ah, no.”

“Why? It was ripe. I was looking forward to that.”

“Ri-ight,” said Aziraphale, with the tone that meant Crowley was not going to like what came out of his mouth next. “About that. I’ve been doing some reading, and it turns out that you’re going to have to give that a miss for a while.”

“For a while? What do you mean, a while?”

“Until you…you know. Give birth.”

Crowley clenched his buttocks. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I’m not remotely ready to deal with even _thinking_ about that part of the situation yet. What are you saying to me? Are you saying I can’t eat cheese any more?”

“Soft cheese,” said Aziraphale. “The kinds with white rinds. Oh, and the ones with blue veins.”

“Those are the best kinds!”

“I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Soft cheeses, paté, any delicatessan meats that have been cured rather than cooked, so that’s prosciutto, salami, bresaola…”

“What? Why?”

“Listeria.”

“Isn’t that a flower?”

“No, that’s _wis_teria,” said Aziraphale. “Listeria is a form of food poisoning, and extremely bad news for expectant mothers.”

Crowley held up a sandwich. “What about this?” he said, annoyed. “Can I eat this egg sandwich? Is that all right?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “But only because it’s been hard boiled. No more soft cooked eggs, I’m afraid. Salmonella risk.”

Crowley stared at him, appalled. He loved raw eggs, ever since the first time he’d stretched his jaws and swallowed one whole. And they tasted even better when you took the shell off. “I am a snake demon,” he said. “I fucking love a dippy egg and soldiers. Are you seriously telling me I’m no longer allowed to eat soft boiled eggs?”

“Afraid so. You’re going to have to eat things that have been _cooked_, so no more raw meat. No more steak tartare.”

“Angel, if you’re telling me I have to eat well-done steak—”

“—for the duration—”

“—no! Fuck that!—”

“—I know you like them underdone, but you can’t go on eating steaks that are practically mooing. Oh, and oysters. Sushi – just generally things that are raw and could contain the possibility of parasites.”

“Assuming I don’t already have parasites,” said Crowley, clutching his stomach. “What am I trying to do to it? Starve the poor thing until it’s forced to leave my body in search of a rare steak and some decent cheese?”

“I am _just_ trying to look after you,” said Aziraphale, getting testy. “If you won’t marry me…”

Crowley sighed. And that was another thing that had happened. And they hadn’t discussed, because how did you really say ‘I’m sorry I rejected your proposal because I’m a dramatic, knocked up trainwreck and also you were really embarrassing about it’? He _could_ have used those exact words, he supposed, but he had a feeling none of them would go down well.

“Look,” he said, choosing his words with excruciating care. “I’m sorry about that. I am very, very sorry about…”

“…Crowley, really. It’s fine. I realise I’m being old fashioned…”

“…it’s not that I don’t…”

“…no, I know…”

“…because I do. Very much. But…”

But Aziraphale had seen something. Without taking his eyes off his target he fumbled for the telescope, produced a Thermos and then sighed. “Oh,” he said, slumping. “False alarm. It’s only MI6.”

“Angel, what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Aziraphale. “Just…keeping an eye on things.”

“Uh huh. And is that why you’re wearing a hat that makes you look like a cricket umpire?”

“This is an elegant summer panama, thank you.”

“Can we also discuss the sunglasses?”

“It’s _summer_,” said Aziraphale.

“And the small portable telescope?” said Crowley. “Is this a stakeout?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “It’s a picnic. There are sandwiches. And cake. Did you have some cake? It’s the lemon drizzle one you like.”

Crowley sighed. “You do realise you couldn’t look more suspicious if you tried. Short of an actual false moustache…” A small, guilty look flittered across the angel’s face. “And you actually considered that, didn’t you?”

“Look, not all of us have eyes all over our wings, you know. Some of us have to make do with the ones we already have.”

“Which is quite a few, in your case.”

“It’s still not that many, relatively speaking,” Aziraphale said. “Compared to Michael I’m positively eyeless, like one of those blind fish that swim around at the bottom of caves. Besides, angelic sight is not what it’s cracked up to be. It’s all very well and good staring into the souls of the people who come around threatening to buy my bookshop every generation or so…” He sighed and reached for the lemon drizzle cake. “Gives me the Dickens of a migraine though. Took me the best part of a decade to shake off the last one.”

“Which decade, just out of interest?”

“Nineties. Nineteen nineties.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. “You were very bitchy in the nineties, now I come to think of it.”

“Well, that was why. I had an absolute blinder behind the eyes.”

“Quite a few eyes.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, reaching for the telescope and peering conspicuously over at the path.

“What? Can you see anything?”

“No. It’s all right.” He lowered the telescope. “I saw big white wings, but I think it’s just a pelican.”

“Well, she’s not going to get her wings out in the middle of St. James’s Park, is she?” said Crowley. “She’s the Archangel Michael. Not you on the piss in Vauxhall Gardens.” That had been a laugh. Eighteen twelve, or thereabouts. Sloshed on several Hogarth sized buckets of gin, Aziraphale had almost passed out for maybe the third time in his long existence. He’d been in the middle of zonking out when the fireworks started, startling him back to full consciousness and causing him to lose control of his wings. Thankfully everyone else had been almost as drunk as they were, and Crowley had managed to convince people that it was just a very convincing fancy dress costume, an impression aided by Aziraphale being loudly and uncelestially ill into a nearby hydrangea bush.

Crowley helped himself to cake and thought wistfully of gin. “What exactly are you expecting to see, anyway?”

“Don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “But she’s _up to something_, Crowley. And I won’t have it. Especially not under the circumstances. I need to know what they have planned.”

“Can’t you just nip upstairs and find out?”

“After breathing hellfire at the archangels? Are you mad? I’d be arrested before I even stepped off the escalator.”

“Then go in disg…no, forget I said that. You’re not good at disguises.”

Aziraphale made an incredulous noise. “I pulled off an Oscar winning performance as you, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Wearing the cutting edge of men’s swimwear circa 1926. Tickety-fucking-boo, indeed.” He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “There are better ways of doing this than hanging around St. James’s Park and hoping to catch her backchannelling with Beelzebub again. What about the spa? Find out when she’s having one of her spa days and follow her around. You said yourself she’s never off the phone. You might learn something.”

“What? Like how fast a man can get thrown out of a spa for following around a woman who’s wearing nothing but a towel and an avocado face mask?”

“So change sex.”

Aziraphale gave an uncomfortable wriggle. “I’m out of practice. Besides, I never got the hang of it the way you did. You were always a lot more…flexible than me. And you know what I’m like: I don’t _adapt_ nearly as well as you do. I think deep down I’ve always been rather more attached to the masculine.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Crowley. “I heard about that gentlemen’s club you joined.”

“It’s not that I _couldn’t_ make the effort, I suppose…”

“No, you’re right. I see your point.” Try as he might, Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale pulling off a convincing feminine disguise. Not without a distinct whiff of pantomime dame about the proceedings. Besides, disguises always brought out his theatrical leanings, and from there it was a slippery slope into crap card tricks and dead doves up his sleeves. “Why don’t you just possess a masseuse or something?”

“Possess? Oh no. I couldn’t.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“Once,” said Aziraphale. “Because the world was ending. And I didn’t feel good about it afterwards. I apologised and sent flowers, but the whole thing left a very strange taste in both our mouths. That poor woman.”

“Meh. She’s probably had worse things inside her. Shadwell, for one.”

Aziraphale stared at him in slow horror.

“Sorry,” said Crowley. “Remind me not to say things like that when I’m feeling queasy.”

“Poor dear. Are you still feeling sick?”

“Sick and hungry at the same time. This is awful. And people do this on _purpose_?”

“I imagine they must,” said Aziraphale. “There are almost eight billion of them, after all.”

Crowley peered dyspeptically at the remains of the picnic. There was no alcohol – yet another one of his favourite things placed out of reach. Sure, he could go ahead and assume Sister Mary was right and that it was impossible for him to be pregnant, but she wasn’t familiar with a) demon anatomy and b) the general background level of impossibility that went on in their daily lives. She had never, for example, watched a lazy angel levitate the couch in order to vacuum underneath it. For now, Crowley realised, he’d have to err on the side of Caution, Caution being a working title for whatever it was in there that was making it hard to fit into his favourite jeans. Nine months. Or however long it took. No booze, no rare steaks, no Stilton, and no – and this one hurt – no soft boiled eggs with toast soldiers. He squeezed his swollen belly and sighed. “Are we really doing this?”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything for a moment. “Do you…” he started, and then stopped again. “Do you…_not_ want to do it?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean…I don’t know.” Crowley sighed again. This was very complicated. All kinds of feelings involved. “It’s _you_, isn’t it? Whatever’s going on in there is you. And me. A bit of both of us. And if I was going to start a family with anyone in the whole wide world, it was always going to be you…”

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale glowed.

“…so, yeah. Fuck it. Like, I’m probably going to give birth to a monster, but it’s my monster. Our monster.”

“Aw…you’ve gone all mother-snake. Protecting your clutch.”

“Ah, no,” said Crowley. “What did we say about not saying the C-word?”

“And we’ve been through this. I don’t care how many there are—”

“—I do—”

“—I will love each and every one of them, even if there are more than a hundred—”

“—a _hundred_?”

“A hundred and fifty is usually the upper limit, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale. “For live births in snakes?”

Crowley’s mouth was open. He couldn’t see any way he was going to get it shut this side of the twenty-second century.

Aziraphale patted his knee. “But it’s probably just the one,” he said. “Who knows what you have in there? It’ll be a delightful surprise.”

“Or…” said Crowley, slowly recovering command of his jaw. “An abomination that will end the world.”

“No, we’ve _met_ him, remember? And he turned out fine in the end. Doing very well in secondary school, I hear.”

* * *

Crowley lay basking in the sun, his throat arched to receive the warmth like a blessing. He was tan and taut-bellied and definitely not pregnant, dressed as he was in a scandalously tiny wisp of black lycra. His dark scaly toes bobbed out of the surface of the glittering blue water in which he floated, on an inflatable pool tyre shaped like a snake eating its own tail. “Now this,” he said. “Is a little bit more like what I expected retirement to be like.”

Aziraphale, who was drifting on an inflatable shaped like a pair of gold edged angel wings, paddled closer to him. “Well, it’s very nice,” he said, because it was. The pool was warm, the breeze in the palm trees was strong enough to provide an agreeable coolness without chill, and the nearby beach bar was stocked with enough esoteric liqueurs to keep even the most alcoholic angel and demon amused. “Is this my dream or yours?”

“Not sure,” said Crowley, snagging a nearby inflatable coaster with an icy cold Mojito on it. “But it’s solid dream work. Has to be said. Nobody’s playing chess with a bee, and there’s alcohol.” He sampled his drink. “Ah. Bliss.”

“I think it must be your dream,” said Aziraphale, who would never have dreamed his way into this particular bathing suit. If it could be called a bathing suit at all. It was more of a…well…posing pouch, really. “I had no idea you pictured me in gold lamé.”

Crowley tipped him a wink over the top of his sunglasses. “If you’ve got it, angel, flaunt it.”

“You are _so_ naughty.”

“And that’s why you love me.”

“One of many reasons, dear.” Aziraphale reached over and patted Crowley’s knee. On his other side, a cloud shaped inflatable coaster bobbed up beside him, bearing a sunset coloured cocktail. “Ooh. What do we have here? Tequila Sunrise?”

“Nope,” said Crowley. “Sex On The Beach. They also had a thing called a Red-Headed Slut, but it was a shot and thought you’d prefer something long.”

Aziraphale peered over his lavender tinted sunglasses. “Oh dear. Suggestive cocktail names have tipped you over into innuendo overdrive, haven’t they?”

“To be fair, I didn’t need much tipping,” said Crowley, swatting away a fly that was buzzing near his head.

Aziraphale sat back to enjoy his drink, savouring the strong hint of peach. They bobbed around contentedly, side by side in the sun. Tiny fluffy clouds scudded past in the deep blue sky, and somewhere happy human voices were singing about going to Bermuda, Bahama, Key Largo and Montego.

“Good dream,” said Aziraphale.

“I know, right?”

“All these years and I had no idea we could do this.”

“Well, you never slept,” said Crowley. “And we never slept _together_.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Aziraphale, who had taken a while to get the hang of that particular euphemism. Of all the things he’d secretly wanted to do with Crowley, sleeping with him was way down the list. Most of the things he desired required consciousness, at the very least.

The music had stopped. Someone was shouting somewhere and he had a vague sense of unease. A fly landed on his knee and he brushed it off.

“I mean,” Crowley was saying. “You’re lying right next to me at the moment. It stands to reason that it’s not exactly hard to stroll into your head and show you what I’m dreaming.” 

“No, absolutely,” said Aziraphale, glancing nervously over to the bar. There looked to be some kind of altercation going on over there, something that, while entirely absurd, had an odd ring of familiarity about it.

“…it’s not like I have to reach far, is it?” This time there was a faint tremor in Crowley’s voice. And there were still more flies.

“Ye-es,” said Aziraphale. “Darling, I don’t want to worry you, but there’s a giant blueberry muffin over at the bar and he’s getting somewhat pugnacious with the bar staff.” 

“Shit,” said Crowley, trying to look and almost overbalancing in his pool tyre. He splashed, and the water had turned red and altogether too viscous. Flies hatched from the bleeding waters and swarmed around them both. “Shit, shit, _shit_…I’ll fix this. I can fix this…”

But it was too late. Beelzebub rose from the waters, wearing an expression that left Aziraphale in no doubt that he was currently trapped in a demon’s anxiety dream.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU PLAYING AT, CROWLEY?” they screamed.

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley, who was now completely naked. “I’m so sorry about this…”

“WHY IS OUR LORD AND MASTER ORDERING HIS OWN AMARETTO SOUR FROM A COCKTAIL WAITER WHO DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO FUCKING MIX ONE?!” Their eyes were drawn to Crowley’s stomach, no longer taut and tan but swollen to monstrous proportions, the skin so thin that Aziraphale could see the scales of the knotted serpents squirming below. “AND WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOUR GUT? ARE YOU FUCKING _PREGNANT_ NOW?”

With a great mental wrench, Aziraphale extricated himself from Crowley’s dream and jerked awake. Beside him, Crowley was thrashing and sweating in the throes of the nightmare.

“…no…no…I didn’t…_I didn’t_…”

“Crowley – wake up!”

“…don’t even need the maternity benefits…what’re you talking…no…no…”

“Crowley!”

“…NOT THE POOL NOODLE!” Crowley shouted himself awake and jerked upright, eyes wide.

“You’re all right,” said Aziraphale, placing a hand on his back. His skin was as wet as if the swimming pool had been real. “Just a dream. That was all.”

Crowley reached for the glass of water next to the bed. He took a long swallow and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“I thought it would be fun.” He dragged his long fingers through his messy red hair. “Dream up a little romantic getaway for two, but noooo…not if my sick mind has anything to do with it.”

“It was lovely,” said Aziraphale, kissing the back of his shoulder.

Crowley snorted and got out of bed. He wriggled into a pair of black pyjama pants and slunk off to the kitchen, leaving Aziraphale wondering what the hell he was _supposed_ to have said under the circumstances. That the whole thing had been a literal nightmare? He turned on the reading lamp and lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling and listening to Crowley rattling about in the kitchen. He heard the fridge door close, the light flick off and waited for Crowley to reappear, but he didn’t. Sighing, Aziraphale slipped on his dressing gown and went to look for him.

He was in the living room, with the lights off and the TV on. A tall glass of milk stood on the coffee table in front of him as he flicked from channel to channel – old films, all night newsrooms, bored humans feigning enthusiasm about cheap jewellery. He didn’t react when Aziraphale sat down beside him, but when Aziraphale rubbed his cheek against the point of his angular shoulder, Crowley turned his head just far enough to deposit a perfunctory kiss amongst Aziraphale’s curls.

“So…” Aziraphale said. “You’ll invite me into your dreams, but you won’t talk to me?”

Crowley changed the channel. One of those American ones, where grotesque preachers begged for money and babbled about the Rapture. He watched without enthusiasm, which was unlike him. Usually the pay-to-pray crowd were his cue to make popcorn and point out that if there had been a Sin Counter at the side of the screen, it would have been rising like the mercury in a confectioner’s thermometer.

After a long pause, he put down the remote control and turned to Aziraphale. “What is there to say?” he said. “Other than ‘oh shit’?”

“‘I love you’?”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley drained his glass and set it down with a sigh. He shook his head. “I wanted this to be perfect.”

“For what to be perfect?”

“This. Us.”

“What are you talking about? It is.”

“Is it?” said Crowley, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t even dream something for you without it turning into…into one of my fucking blueberry muffin dreams.” His strange eyes glittered. “All that time. All those years. Centuries. Millennia. Dreaming about what our lives together could be. All the places we’d go. The things we’d see.” A rueful little smile twisted his lips. “The things we’d get up to with a bottle of Tate and Lyle’s Golden Syrup…”

“…darling…”

“…and now I have you. And this…this is what your life has become. Mopping up the corrosive body fluids of a sick, pregnant demon.”

“Have a care, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “You’re talking about the sick, pregnant demon that I love.”

“God knows why.”

“Because you can’t even sleep beside me without trying to show me something wonderful,” said Aziraphale. “Because you’ve saved me more times than I can count. Because you’ve risked the wrath of Hell – and Heaven – just to make me smile.” He cupped Crowley’s face in his hands. “Because deep down, although you’ll never admit it, you’re _good_. You’re kind. Gentle…” Crowley’s breath stuttered. “…compassionate. Thoughtful…”

Crowley’s kiss tasted of milk and tears. In the bluish light from the television screen, his large eyes looked almost orange. He grabbed two handfuls of Aziraphale’s hair and pulled him down as he sank back on the sofa, already trembling with a kind of need that Aziraphale recognised from those moments when Crowley begged for the tip of his finger, and sucked like a glutton on the light he was supposed to have lost forever.

But not tonight. No more supernatural stuff, because neither of them had any idea if it was safe under the circumstances. They would have to be human about it, and it was more than enough, the way it had been the first times, when the touch of skin on skin had rang like an alarm bell, alerting Aziraphale to the depths of his own hunger, his absolute starvation for this simple yet strangely essential new thing. It might have been embarrassing had it not been for Crowley, who had twined around him at every opportunity, stroking not just with hands but with feet and thighs and cheeks, hissing parched whispers into Aziraphale’s ears: “Your _hands_…I can’t get enough of your hands on me.”

It was still a shock, as much as the first time, how slight Crowley was to the touch. All that snarl and swagger was – when stripped bare and tumbled between the sheets – just a delicate jangle of knobby joints and planes of sparse flesh. And those hips. Those maddening, entrancing hips, the hard little rise of bone the most perfect handle. Aziraphale’s thumb pressed into the new, slight swell of Crowley’s belly and Crowley made a sharp, impatient sound and wriggled free of his pyjama trousers, offering himself naked to the knees.

When Aziraphale took him in hand he shivered and leaked a single drop like a tear. Sick and caustic as Crowley was, it didn’t burn Aziraphale, only warmed where it touched, like the juice of a pepper. Perhaps because I’ve been inside him, Aziraphale thought. In every way. Not just in the hot-breathed cave of his mouth, the tight, sinful clench of his arse or even the wet silken folds of his cunt, but _all the way_ inside. Under his skin, inhabiting his very bones, breathing in the sleek, dark, endlessly enviable grace of him, even as he made him swing his hips, arch his eyebrows and drawl one liners at his enemies.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, as he watched Crowley rock and shudder into his hand, the flickering lights from the television screen playing across his skin and making his eyes look like something from an opium dream. “The most perfect thing in all the world.”

Crowley reached up, his fingers digging into the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. “Kiss me. Please. Just kiss me.”

Strictly human, Aziraphale told himself, careful not to let any light spill from his tongue onto Crowley’s. They had fucked like this the very first time, rocking and rubbing, cautious not to let their true natures run too wild. And here they were again, doing the exact same thing, only this time because there might be a third person present, a witness and testament to their love, and _oh_, why did that thrill him so? He moaned into Crowley’s mouth and moved faster, sweat sliding between them now, so that Crowley kicked one leg free of his pyjama pants and hooked it around the backs of Aziraphale’s thighs, holding him in place.

“Tell me again,” Crowley said, his voice a shallow gasp. “Tell me I’m good.”

“You are.” Aziraphale worked a hand between their bodies, pressing his own length against Crowley’s as he stroked with his fingers, urging him on. “You are perfect. You are precious. You are sublime…” Crowley’s hand clenched tighter in his hair, holding Aziraphale’s head there, with his lips against Crowley’s ear. “You are holy. You are beloved. _My_ beloved. The sweetest, most sacred thing…”

Crowley’s breath hitched – three steady, spaced gasps coming in time with the motions of his hips. Aziraphale felt him come, silent but for a soft, breaking sob at the end, and tasted the tear that ran from the corner of Crowley’s eye towards his ear. He thrust into the slippery heat that had spilled between them, and Crowley’s fingers fumbled around him, closing over his own. “Come on…” Crowley’s voice was a barely there exhalation, one hand still in Aziraphale’s hair. “Let’s have it…” He was still panting, as if in sympathy with Aziraphale’s speeding, gasping breaths, and when Aziraphale cried out he whispered a hungry, hissing ‘oh yessss’ of encouragement that turned out to be all it took. Everything was already fingers and squeezing and mess and heat, a sticky little piece of human frailty that somehow, sometimes – like tonight – was the only thing he really craved or needed. Such an inadequate expression of love compared to some of the others at his disposal, but as he came down from the peak he couldn’t imagine anything more divinely tender than _now_.

Aziraphale lay quiet for a while, watching the lights from the television play over Crowley’s bare skin and the drying stickiness smeared there. His eyes were drawn to the decorative dent of Crowley’s navel.

He’d never needed one, and neither had Aziraphale, but they both had them. Protective camoflage, even though they hadn’t grown in the same curious manner as humans, connected through a stem that twisted like the bole of a tree and then spread out through the placenta in a network of veins that looked startlingly like roots. Aziraphale had been making notes on a lot of new books lately, but every now and again he’d have to put down his pen in breathless admiration at the way nature echoed itself – the delicate fans of root and vein, the same fractal patterns on the inside of a developing lung. His hand, resting on the shallow dip between the connecting sweeps of Crowley’s lowest ribs, ventured lower.

“May I?”

Crowley hesitated for a stretched second. “Yeah. All right.”

Aziraphale spread his fingers over the barely there bump. It felt surprisingly solid, but featureless, taut.

“You don’t have to ask, you know,” said Crowley. “It’s yours, after all.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. For some reason his throat had stopped working. “I was just being polite,” he said.

“Can you feel anything?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, although that wasn’t true at all. The roots of his wings twitched and ached. His eyes burned. If someone had handed him a flaming sword he wouldn’t have hesitated to wield it.

“I expect it’s too early for that,” said Crowley. “And I think a fair amount of it is probably gas.”

“Oh, no doubt.”

Crowley spread his fingers over Aziraphale’s. “Euch. Sticky. I’m gonna go and clean up.” He wriggled upright and retrieved his trousers from the floor. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, in a minute.”

Aziraphale sat up and pulled his robe tight around himself, as if a mere wisp of fluffy human fabric could contain the wings currently straining against the edges of his corporation. He knew he’d never been a particularly good angel; he was lazy, occasionally thoughtless, far too fond of the pleasures of the flesh and sometimes outright disobedient. He’d been a piss poor Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and yet as soon as he’d heard the words _after all, it’s yours_ all he’d wanted to do was spread his wings and cry. His angelic instincts suddenly felt too big for his body, for the room, for the world, and he fastened on the image on the TV in a desperate bid to contain them and keep himself from either sobbing or exploding into his true form and making a terrible mess of the living room.

He recognised the televangelist on the screen. Theirs had been a brief meeting at the end of the world, but Aziraphale wasn’t likely to forget the few minutes he’d spent inside that ugly, venal creature’s head, before finding his way to Madame Tracy.

She’d been very nice about it, of course. “Perhaps we could have lunch sometimes,” she’d said, when Aziraphale had apologised for the hundredth time and she was edging away from him with the general air of someone who had places to be and things to do.

“Lunch,” said Aziraphale, turning off the television. “No, I think we can do better than that, Mrs Potts.”

The next morning, Aziraphale got dressed with a new sense of purpose, his mind now firmly fixed on a plan. It was pure serendipity really. Madam Tracy had retired to Bognor Regis, and Aziraphale happened to know that Michael was particularly fond of an exclusive spa in the nearby cathedral city of Chichester.

He adjusted his bow tie and turned back to the bed, where Crowley was sleeping, stark naked and wrapped pretzel legged around the decorative bolster like one of Harlow’s unfortunate monkeys. His stomach rumbled in his sleep and a light mist of steam rose from his skin.

“Poor darling,” said Aziraphale, and bent over to kiss his cheek, wincing at the smell of brimstone that wafted from the middle of the bed. “Everything’s going to be all right now. You’ll see.”

Aziraphale went downstairs and dialled the elderly but still serviceable Bakelite phone. He hoped he wouldn’t get Shadwell. Thankfully, he didn’t.

“Hello? Mrs Potts…oh, sorry. Mrs Shadwell – how are you? I don’t suppose you remember me…yes, yes, that’s right – the possession and the subsequent apocalypse…I’m fine, thank you for asking…can’t complain. Listen, what it is…and I’m aware this might seem like a forward request, but do you remember we mentioned lunch?…oh, I am glad. But you see, I thought we might go one better. What would you say to a _spa day_?”


	4. Aziraphale and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Spa Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley attempts to run a bookshop. Aziraphale and Madame Tracy attempt espionage. One of these things goes a lot worse than the other.

The next things to go weird were his feet.

Aziraphale had been right about how swollen ankles were a Very Bad Thing, so Crowley obligingly put his feet up. And kept them up. His ankles remained unswollen, but now he was shedding.

Crowley had shed before, of course. These things were just part and parcel of snake life. You got up in the morning, you found something to eat, you swallowed it whole and then lay around with a dinner shaped bulge in your middle while you digested it. Then other days you’d wake up with a worse case of eye floaters than usual, realise it was that time again and get down to some serious – and oddly satisfying – sloughing.

He’d done it countless times over the long millennia, although he’d never done it in human form before.

Crowley’s feet – like his eyes – were the least human parts of him. They served as a reminder that he was never supposed to have feet in the first place and had been sentenced to crawl around on his belly. Small dark scales grew on the backs of his toes and his insteps, petering out towards the ankles. His toenails were black, which was nothing unusual. What was unusual was the alarming amount of skin that seemed to be peeling off his feet lately.

This morning’s growth was _just_ beginning to peel. Crowley sat curled on the couch, picking at the skin and enjoying it. It was – as Aziraphale had repeatedly pointed out – extremely disgusting, but Crowley couldn’t seem to stop. It pressed the same filthy buttons inside him as a really ripe zit, or a scab that had finished crusting and started whispering siren promises about how it would come off all in one piece. _And it wouldn’t even bleed.*_

“Stop picking your feet.”

Aziraphale’s voice seemed to come from nowhere. While Aziraphale was always insisting he didn’t have that many eyes for an angel, Crowley had never quite managed to rid himself of the impression that Aziraphale’s regular, two-eyed corporation had at least one spare pair in the back of its head.

“I’m not,” said Crowley, and stopped picking his feet for all of five seconds.

Aziraphale appeared, arms full of new books. He looked down at the floor and groaned. “You are absolutely picking your feet,” he said. “And it’s everywhere.” He dumped the books – pastel coloured things about pregnancy – on the coffee table. “I’m going to have to vacuum _again_.”

“Yeah, about that,” said Crowley. “You’re a six thousand year old celestial being. Why are you doing your own vacuuming?”

“Cleaning is good for the soul.”

Crowley gagged. “Please don’t say cleanliness is next to Godliness. You know I hate it when you start talking in needlepoint samplers.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,” said Aziraphale, who totally was.

On the plus side, nothing sinister had emerged from the vacuum cleaner. At least, not yet. Since then, there had been a lot of talk about the nature of angel feathers, and Aziraphale’s current theory was that the Kew Garden effect had been like a static charge from a bad nylon carpet. A one and done spark kind of deal. The feather they’d stuck in the plant pot had resolutely refused to work any more miracles, which boded well for whatever was going on the hoover bag. It didn’t bode so well for whatever was going on inside Crowley: _that_ time it had been a freshly plucked feather, fully charged.

Aziraphale went to walk past the couch. Crowley stretched out an arm, blocking him, and extended an index finger.

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“Go on.”

“_No._”

“Is this who you are now?” said Crowley. “Are you really going to make the mother of your unborn monsters pull his own finger?”

Aziraphale scrunched up his nose, tugged and fled to the other side of the bookshop, leaving Crowley in hysterics. “You’re not funny,” Aziraphale said, holding his nose. “Are you sure this is normal?”

“What? The farting? Yeah. It’s progesterone. Or prostaglandins. Hormones or something.”

“You mean you actually read one of those baby books?”

“Nah,” said Crowley. “I looked it up online. Which you can do, by the way. You don’t have to buy more books.”

They’d had words about buying more books, especially print editions. In a doomed attempt to avoid building any more IKEA bookshelves and maybe start using the space effectively, Crowley had attempted to explain ebooks to Aziraphale. He had been rewarded with a long, hurt silence that had lasted the best part of a day.

“Ah, yes. Online,” said Aziraphale, slowly emerging from his hiding place, nose still discreetly covered. “I tried that.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. And do you know what the Internet had to say about the matter?”

“Uh…a lot?”

Aziraphale reached for a notebook and put on his glasses. “I wrote it down,” he said. “On the offchance that it doesn’t haunt me for the remainder of my immortal life.” He gave a theatrical little cough and read verbatim. “‘How is babby formed? How girl get pragnent?’”

Crowley shrugged. “Legitimate question.”

“Maybe, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with the weight of printed matter on the subject.”

“Whatever.”

“The books are right there, Crowley. It wouldn’t kill you to pick one up now and again.”

“Do you think they cover this, then?” said Crowley. “When you reek of sulphur and all the skin is falling off your feet?”

“Well, no. Obviously you are an _unusual_ case, but maybe this is your body’s way of saying you need to be taking something. Pills and such.”

“Pills? I thought you took pills when you were trying not to get pregnant, not the other way around?”

“No. Vitamins pills,” said Aziraphale. “Folic acid and so forth.”

“Acid?” said Crowley. “I don’t need any more acid. You saw what I did to the downstairs toilet. I’ve got permanent indigestion as it is.”

To Crowley’s astonishment, Aziraphale produced a pharmacy bag and set it on the coffee table. He’d been shopping already. “They’re prenatal,” he said. “I looked it up. It’s exactly the kind of thing you should be taking and I would be very, very happy if you’d just go along with me on this one. Apparently they’re essential for your health and the health of the…the baby.”

The baby. Oh shit. This felt far too real. Realer than Aziraphale suddenly going all Victorian values and getting down on one knee. This was serious. This was actually happening to them, and no amount of fart jokes were ever going to make it less frightening or important. Crowley thought back to the last time he’d had a baby on board: even that time hadn’t left him in such a profound state of fear or intestinal distress, and that time he had literally been carrying the Antichrist.

He took the pills out of the bag, but when he tried to read the side of the box his eyes seemed to have forgotten what words were, and how they worked.

“Once a day,” said Aziraphale, who had already read the instructions, because of course he had. “And best taken with food, I’m told. Would you like me to get you some ice cream?”

“Yrrs,” said Crowley, hoping his distress didn’t show on his face, because somewhere along the line he’d turned into an emotionally unstable lunatic who could neither talk nor read, and who wanted to cry forever because someone who loved him read the instructions on the vitamin box for him and offered him ice cream.

Aziraphale brought him cold water and ice cream and Crowley obediently popped the pills. “Thank you,” said Aziraphale, kissing Crowley on his closed mouth. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“It’s fine. It’s a thing. I can handle it.”

“Are you sure? Because if you’re feeling a little bit fragile I can always…”

“Always what?”

Aziraphale drew in an unsteady breath. “I’m not sure,” he said, and for the first time Crowley had a sense of just how overwhelmed he was by all of this. “I’d do this for you, if I could.”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah. It’s all right. I know you’re not that comfortable with the whole vagina business.”

“I know, but I feel like such a fool. I didn’t even _think_…”

“Angel, stop it. You weren’t to know. You’d had your bits snipped.”

“I know, but…” Aziraphale let out a long, heavy sigh. “They snipped all three Heavenly Choirs, but of course _my_ vasectomy is the one that fails. I am a rubbish angel.”

“You are not. You’re the best angel ever.” Crowley leaned in and kissed the side of his neck. “You’re my fluffy little dimpled bundle of love.”

Aziraphale blushed. “Stop it. You’re going to make me go all ridiculous.”

He ran his hand over Crowley’s hair and held him there for a moment, his cheek warm against the top of Crowley’s head. They swayed against each other and Crowley swallowed down tears and grappled with the sheer scale of how many feelings he was doomed to have as this thing rumbled along on its inevitable course. And he wasn’t even allowed to drink them away. That was the worst part. Under normal circumstances he’d have downed a bottle of Talisker and settled in for some really dramatic drunken sobbing, but now he had to face more emotions than he’d ever had in his life _and deal with them while sober_.

And all of that was before he’d even started to deal with the fact that Hell was probably going to kill him and Aziraphale was going to Fall.

Crowley was used to being in Hell’s bad books. It wasn’t like they had any other kind anyway, but Aziraphale? The thought of the angel – his angel – taking that long, dark swan dive into eternal disgrace…

Yeah. That wasn’t happening. Not as long as he still had breath in his bloated, farty, inconveniently pregnant body.

“Listen,” said Aziraphale. “I wanted to ask you something. There’s a rare book fair down in Sussex tomorrow, and I was wondering if you’d mind holding the fort?”

“What? The bookshop?”

“Yes.”

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?”

“I hate to tell you this,” said Aziraphale. “But you sort of do. Run a bookshop, that is.”

“Fuck.”

“It’s all right. It’s not difficult. I mean, all you have to do is the usual secondhand bookshop things. Hostile looks, unpleasant smells…”

“Oh, well,” said Crowley. “I’ve got you covered on the smells. Smell central, here.”

“Yes, I’m aware. You’d give James Joyce cause to pause and reach for the air freshener.” Aziraphale patted his knee. “But only if you’re up to it. You don’t have to open if you don’t want to. If you can’t handle it…”

“Angel, I can handle running a secondhand bookshop. I’m pregnant, not dying. This is a perfectly natural…well…sort of a natural process, I suppose. Countless demons have spawned before me—”

“—darling, please. You’re not _spawning_—”

“—I could be spawning,” said Crowley. “Demons spawn. I am a demon. There is a non-zero chance of spawning here.”

“I know, but really. It’s such a revolting word. I don’t want to refer to our children as spawn.”

“You do know they’re not going to be dropped down the chimney in cute little cloth bundles by storks, don’t you?”

“Yes. I read the books.” Aziraphale gave him a hopeful look. “Are you sure you’re all right? I feel awful about leaving you alone like this—”

“—it’s fine—”

“—but you really would be bored silly—”

“—angel, _go_.”

And so the angel went.

The next day Crowley – who did not look like he ran a bookshop, no matter what Aziraphale said – attempted to run a bookshop. He made himself a cup of peppermint tea (it tasted repulsive but it was one of the few things that helped with the constant wind) and settled into an armchair to practice the look of tired disdain that Aziraphale wore whenever a customer wandered into the shop.

Unfortunately there were no customers to practice on, and Crowley – with his usual instincts – couldn’t help thinking there had to be a _better_ way to go about this. It was all about the reviews, these days. People reviewed everything, because they were all critics, all customers. There had to be far more efficient ways of keeping people out of your secondhand bookshop than sitting around scowling and making indeterminate smells.

Crowley was all about efficient. Back when he’d had an office in Hell he’d avoided it as much as humanly – or demonly – possible. It was a horrible office, obviously, but he didn’t see why it should be horrible for _him_. “I’m just saying,” he’d pointed out, on more than one occasion. “Air conditioning. That’s all. It’s a small thing, but if you want me to come up with creative methods of visiting misery upon humanity, I’d work a lot more effectively if I wasn’t constantly worried about getting pit stains on my Jean Paul Gaultier.”

He glanced at the Waitrose bag of _Fifty Shades of Grey_ and – not for the first time – experienced a bright green pang of envy. Now that was some efficient work. All those people staining their souls by buying what they thought was pornography, only to be enraged when they discovered it wasn’t even that smutty. Unable to help himself, Crowley cleared the large table nearest the door and piled it high with the donated _Twilight_ porn.

With his demon instincts briefly answered, Crowley settled back on the couch. He flipped through a couple of baby books and wished he hadn’t, because six millennia of body horror still hadn’t prepared him for some of things that happened to a human body during pregnancy. Obviously there was going to be a lot of stretching and expanding and leaking, but teeth? It was going to do a number on his _teeth_? Crowley had a number of recurring anxiety dreams, all of them awful in their own unique ways, but he’d take any number of Satan-as-an-enraged-blueberry-muffin dreams over the ones involving smashy, bloody things happening to his teeth.

Crowley returned to the only slightly less terrifying business of poking himself in the stomach. He couldn’t really feel anything in there, as such. It was just swollen, and firm to the touch. “It’s very _hard_, isn’t it?” Aziraphale had said, on one of his tentative explorations. Crowley had glared at him and told him that he was touching entirely the wrong part of Crowley’s body to be saying things like that.

And it was. Hard, that is. Smooth and round, like he’d swallowed a balloon. Nothing moving, either, which he wasn’t sure was a good thing or not. On one hand he was sure it was supposed to move at some point, but on the other hand he was _definitely_ not ready to revisit the nightmares where he had a belly so full of squirming snakes that the things were also coming out of his mouth. Occasionally he felt something shift in there, but it usually made its presence felt later in the shape of yet another fart.

“I mean, what. even. are. you?” he said, addressing a point slightly south of his belly button, punctuating his words with gentle prods of his index finger. Angel, demon, somewhere in between? “Snake with wings? Angel with weird eyes? Terrible mistake that’s going to get us all killed?” Crowley winced at that one. “Sorry. That was harsh.” He patted his stomach. “It’s not your fault. How was I supposed to know I was fertile? Or he was? We’re a couple of six thousand year old retirees, for fuck’s sake. Just naturally assumed we were past it.”

Crowley rubbed his belly. “If I’d known this was going to happen, I’d have planned for a better retirement package than just ‘The only reason we haven’t killed you yet is because we don’t actually know _how_ to.’ And that’s just me. God knows how much trouble your dad’s going to be in…” He dragged in a shuddering breath. Hormones. Hell of a thing. “Do you want some more ice cream? Yeah…let’s go and get some more ice cream.”

He didn’t get that far, however, because a customer came in. She didn’t see him, although she did sniff. And still didn’t leave. Crowley watched her with interest. Why wasn’t she leaving? Was he not smelly enough? Not sinister? Was he going soft?

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” he said, trying to channel Aziraphale’s bored surliness.

“Brett Gilmore?” she said.

“Who?” said Crowley, with a withering undertone of ‘ugh’ that he thought was quite good, actually. Almost angelic.

“Uh, Brett Gilmore?” said the customer. “He’s been at the top of the New York Times bestseller list since the spring.”

“I wasn’t aware we were in New York,” said Crowley. “This is a secondhand bookshop. If it’s currently on the bestseller lists, come back in ten years time. _Then_ we might have it.”

“Okay,” she said, unabashed, and approached the table. “You’ve got a lot of _these_, at any rate.”

“Yeah, that happens,” said Crowley, abandoning his impersonation of Aziraphale. No matter how he tried he couldn’t quite get the blistering contempt down just yet. “There’s a sign that says not to donate them, but people still do. Found a bag full of the bloody things on the doorstep like an abandoned baby. My partner swears its that old biddy down at the Cancer Research Shop round the corner. Keeps offloading them on us.”

The woman picked up a copy of _Fifty Shades_ and flipped through the pages. She affected an expression of amused, neutral curiosity, an expression that made Crowley’s most ancient instincts suddenly bristle, strain and ache like an exuberant morning erection. Oh, he _needed_ this.

It was like being back in the garden, smelling the juice as her white teeth broke through the red apple skin and her tongue first savoured the flesh. He swore he could feel the slits of his pupils expand as he watched her. Swinging his hips with something like his old swagger, he wriggled over to the other side of the table and leaned against it. “I hear it’s filthy,” he said.

She looked up. “Have you read it?”

“Oh no. No.” He picked up the corners of a copy and fluttered the pages in her general direction, temptation taking flight like a hundred or more tiny moths, invisible black wings beating at the dusty air of the bookshop. “But I’m told it’s pretty much cover to cover eyewatering pornography.”

“Really?” she said, with an embarrassed laugh. “I read the film reviews and they all said it was _very_ tame.”

“Yeah, but that’s the film version, isn’t it?” said Crowley, leaning even further across the table and struggling to resist the urge to _slither_. “Stands to reason they have to tone it down for the film version, otherwise nobody would see it.”

“I suppose so.”

“Now, the book version…” He fluttered the pages again. The air was growing thicker and darker, heavy with seductive perfumes. All the old demonic muscles were in play now, and the stretch and flex of them felt delicious. “Is meant to be a whole different thing. Raw. Raunchy. Uninhibited.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Acts of uncensored depravity so disgusting that they would have made the Marquis de Sade reach for the smelling salts.” Crowley slunk closer. “Weird stuff. Wrong stuff.” He had her now. It was all too easy, but it was _so_ good to be back in the saddle again. “Sticking it in holes that don’t even exist in nature, I heard. Appetites not even sated by the normal entrancessss…” Crowley let his tongue flicker and taste the thick, delectable air. “Or exits.”

The woman cleared her throat. “So…one pound fifty?” she said.

“Call it a quid,” said Crowley. “And thank you for your custom.”

Several hours later, the table was empty and Crowley was amusing himself by building a replica of the BT Tower out of pound coins. His Inner Demon lay sated and smouldering, smoking a cigarette and wearing nothing but the same bewildered yet beatific expression that Aziraphale had worn the first time Crowley done that thing with the Golden Syrup. “Oh yeah,” Crowley muttered, as he stacked the last coin on top of the tower. “Still got it, baby. It never left me.”

He sat back and yawned, and as he did so a scent tickled the tip of his tongue. No, not a scent. A _non_-scent, a space where a smell should be. It coated his tongue, poked at the back of his throat and propelled him out of his chair before he had time to think. He bounded into the downstairs toilet and whipped off his sunglasses just in time to avoid them falling into the bowl.

Crowley spat, flushed and stayed there for a long while, gagging and dizzy. Usually throwing up made him feel better, but not this time. His guts remained in knots and his heart was hammering like that of a Grand National winner. And he was scared. Scared in a way he hadn’t been since the world was about to end – no _worse_, because now there was this little thing in the picture.

He had a feeling it didn’t care for angels.

“It’s all right,” he said, clutching his heaving stomach. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Settle down in there. I won’t let them do anything to you.”

He spat a couple more times, flushed again and walked out on shaking legs to get some water. The blank smell had vanished, but the fear hadn’t, and to his everlasting shame it wore a pale lilac Zegna and Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes.

_Shut your stupid mouth and die already._

Did he know? Had Michael told him her suspicions? Crowley took a long swallow of cold water and shuddered. If Heaven had figured it out they were fucked. Or more specifically, Aziraphale was. They’d stuff him back in that incinerator without blinking.

Crowley’s stomach did another slow roll. For a split second he thought he was going to have to sprint for it again, but he breathed through it. “Shh,” he said. “It’s all over. I can’t smell them any more. No need to panic.” He drank and sighed. “This is probably a bad time to break it to you, but your father’s an angel. But it’s all right. He’s a good one. The best one, actually. And I won’t let anything happen to him, either.” 

He went to the hat rack and rummaged in the pockets of his jacket. The tiny rectangle of white light was still there, and as he looked at it a number – although nothing like anything a human would recognise as a number – blinked into life.

“All right,” he said, picking up his phone. “Don’t freak out, okay? This is just a keep your friends close and your enemies closer type situation. Ease up on the vomiting. It’s not cool.”

He dialled and waited. She picked up almost immediately.

“Well, this is a surprise,” said Michael.

“Really?” said Crowley. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t smell you hanging around my bookshop?”

“Excuse me?”

“I can smell an angel here in Soho. And it’s not the one I’m used to. What are you playing at, Michael?”

“As a matter of fact I’m not even in London,” she said. “So I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Pull the other one.”

“No, I’m serious. It’s my spa day. Whatever’s going on in London is nothing to do with me.”

“You sure?” said Crowley, swallowing a nervous belch. “Because I’m aware you know how to delegate. And something smells awfully angelic around here. What’s the game, Michael? Is this just more shit-stirring or have we moved into the ‘nice place you’ve got here, shame if something happened to it’ phase of the plan?”

She gave a sharp sniff. “There’s no plan. I told you. It’s very simple. The offer remains the same. The management has set up a robust framework for a non-interventionist hands-on solution, utilising off-payroll operatives and outsourcing.”

“In other words,” said Crowley. “You want to pay me to give someone boils on their cock?”

“Yes. That’s about the size of it.”

“And what do I get out of this?”

“Extensive renumeration,” she said. “As we discussed before. And a benefits package.”

“What kind of benefits package?” said Crowley. “Pension fund? Lottery syndicate? Written promise not to send Sandalphon round to turn me into a pillar of fucking salt?”

Michael clicked her tongue. “He did that _once_.”

“Yeah, I know, but it was a lot.”

There was a silence, followed by a strange, soft snort. Interesting.

“Did you just—?”

“—no—”

“—laugh at one of my jokes?”

“No.” Even more interesting. Turned out that Aziraphale wasn’t the only angel who had a flexible relationship with the truth. Crowley had always suspected as such, but he’d never thought it would be this easy to catch an archangel out in a lie.

“They won’t like that upstairs, you know,” he said. “Laughing at my jokes.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “And we’re not immune to fun.”

“Is that so?”

“You might even find some of our propositions amusing.”

“I very much doubt that,” said Crowley, a hand on his squirming stomach. “But sure. Try me.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll schedule a meeting. How would that be?”

“I have terms,” said Crowley. “And conditions. Lots of them.”

“That’s fine. We’ll thrash it out as and when. Listen, I’ll text you. I’ve got to go: my masseuse is ready for me.”

Crowley hung up. “There you go,” he said, taking a long, steadying breath and trying to ignore the sudden tremor in his knees and thighs. “Wasn’t so bad, was it? We’ve got this all under control, don’t you wor…oh fuck.”

He dived for the toilet again. Great. It seemed like the kid was both nervous _and_ opinionated. It was already taking after its father.

* * *

Madam Tracy had been a lot of people in her eventful life. One of her first thoughts – on discovering that there was an angel currently occupying the inside of her head – had been “Oh dear, whatever must you think of me?” as all her sins spun before both their eyes like the tumblers on a fruit machine. Only instead of lemons and apples and cherries there had been latex. And floggers. And dildos.

“It’s quite all right,” Aziraphale had said. “I run a book shop in what used to be a prominent red light district. I lost count of how many men in dirty raincoats used to keep wandering into my shop and asking me where the adult novelties were kept.”

“In the end it’s all about giving people what they want,” she said, as she and Aziraphale strolled down the shingle beach at Bognor Regis, Madame Tracy’s Yorkshire terrier scampering and sniffing along the edge of the water. “Whether it’s dead relatives or executive relief – I suppose I’m a bit of a people pleaser at heart.”

“Yes, but what about what _you_ wanted?” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, I’m not very complicated,” she said, although there was a frayed edge to her smile. “I’ve got more or less what I wanted out of life. A man, a dog, a little bit of me time. And a nice bungalow by the sea.”

“It’s a delightful beach,” said Aziraphale. “I confess I thought Bognor was such an unattractive name, but it really is quite charming. I always forget how much I enjoy the South Downs.”

“We like it. I’m sorry we had to meet here, but I thought it would be best for you-know-who to get off to his Sealed Knot thing first.”

“Sealed Knot?” said Aziraphale, faintly alarmed by the prospect of a Shadwell who had given into more specialised side of his wife’s expertise.

She correctly interpreted the look on his face and laughed. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “It’s not a bondage thing. I thought it was at first, too.”

“Please tell me it isn’t.”

“It isn’t. It’s a historical society. Reenactments and things. Focuses mostly on the Civil War_s_.” She stressed the s. “He’s very particular about that, by the way. The plural. It wasn’t just one civil war. There were two, one on top of the other.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Aziraphale. Dark days, the mid-seventeenth century, although it made sense that Shadwell would be right at home reenacting them. He would have loved the seventeenth century – black and white thinking, plenty of witches, and numerous opportunities for circulating scurrilous pamphlets and bellowing apocalyptic nonsense on street corners.

“Dougie loves it,” said Madame Tracy, jarring Aziraphale with the realisation that Shadwell had a first name. “Given him a whole new lease of life. Got quite a spring in his step these days, or it could just be the sea air. Anyway, listen to me rattling on. How have you been getting along with your…your friend?”

“Friend?”

“The one with the tight jeans and the exploding car,” she said. “Did you finally make your move?”

“Uh…”

She arched an eyebrow. “I may not be the brightest person in the world,” she said. “But when the world is about to end and all someone can think is ‘Where’s Crowley? Is Crowley going to be all right? Will I get to see him one last time?’ I can’t help thinking that there’s a move that needs to be made somewhere, by one or the other. Or both.”

“Oh, right. That,” said Aziraphale, wondering if it was too late to back out now. How was he going to keep all this worry locked up inside his own head while they were sharing a body? “As a matter of fact I did.”

“And?”

“He felt the same way. Actually, he moved in with me. We’re in love.”

“Aw.”

“I know,” said Aziraphale, mentally shunting all his anxieties into a small compartment in the back of his brain. It had seen a lot of use over the centuries. “We’re tremendously happy.”

She gave his elbow a confidential squeeze. “Good for you,” she said. “He’s _very_ handsome, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is. Simply gorgeous.”

“And so _stylish_. Well, I mean, they are, aren’t they?” She stumbled for a moment and looked him up and down. “Not that you’re not…I mean, you have your own fashion sense. You’re an individual. One of a kind.”

She called the dog, whose name was Percy, and snapped his lead back onto his tartan collar. They walked back to the bungalow, which was a series of pinkish rooms separated by beaded curtains. Madame Tracy may have hung up her paddles and floggers, but even the presence of a retired witchfinder hadn’t been enough to separate her from her tarot cards. Crystals gleamed on every windowsill, and an apron hanging on the back of the kitchen door elaborated on the virtues of Piscean cooks.

“You know, I never did find out your sign,” said Madame Tracy, catching him looking. “Wait…let me guess.” She looked him up and down. “Fond of your creature comforts, aren’t you? Strong sense of right and wrong, but can be very indecisive at time. I want to say Libra.”

“Uncanny,” said Aziraphale, who picked his horoscope according to whichever one seemed to have the most relevant advice that particular day.

“I do natal charts these days. It’s very interesting. I could do yours.”

“Maybe.” Could you do a natal chart for someone who was never actually _born_?

“Astrological compatibility is so important. That’s why I persisted with Dougie. He could protest as much as he liked, but destiny said different. We were always meant to be together.” She smoothed down the front of her pale pink blouse. “Anyway. How are we going to do this?”

“Um…well…the usual way, I think,” said Aziraphale. “I…slip out of my body and…into yours.”

Madame Tracy frowned. “And where does your body go?”

“Somewhere safe, hopefully. It’s going to be sitting…vacant.”

She nodded. “Ah. The spare room.”

The spare room was even pinker than the other parts of the house. Madame Tracy set about removing the small menagerie of cuddly toys from the single bed. “Would you like to lie down?” she said, with an ease that spoke of the countless times she’d said those exact words before. And sometimes to men who were almost as strange as he was.

Aziraphale lay down on top of the duvet, his socked feet together and his hands folded over his stomach. He exhaled, nervous as he rummaged down into the depths of his flesh and started snipping through all those little sinewy psychic anchors that held his self inside his corporation. Once the last one was gone he shot up like a helium balloon and it was only with a massive effort that he managed to stay where he was, hovering around the light fitting. _Oh dear. Hang on. I’m a bit more buoyant than I thought_ he said, but of course nobody could hear him, Madame Tracy being about as genuinely psychic as a bedsock.

He forced himself down and dived between her shoulders, and then he heard the words _oh no, not again_ skitter through her brain as he took up crowded residence alongside her.

Aziraphale looked through her eyes and saw his body – eyes closed – lying motionless on her bed.

“Oh, that’s a bit spooky,” she said.

_I’m not dead,_ said Aziraphale. _I’m just…temporarily absent._ But it was spooky, all the same. Especially since he was fairly sure that if anything happened to this body, there was no way he was getting another one. Heaven had never looked very favourably on requisition requests in the first place, let alone when the angel in question was Aziraphale and one of his reasons for needing a new body was because it gave him – and a certain demon – a great deal of newfound pleasure.

_It’ll be safe here, won’t it?_ he said. _My body, I mean._

“Fine,” said Madame Tracy. “I told you. He’s at his Sealed Knot thing all day. We’ll have a lovely day of pampering, although I still don’t quite understand why you can’t take your own body.” She shrugged. “Still, not for me to judge. Whatever tickles your pickle and doesn’t cause a bout of cold sweats in the morning. That’s always been my motto.”

_Your open mindedness does you credit, but I assure you it’s not sexual._

“Oh, I know that,” she said, closing the spare room door and shooing away the little dog, who had come to sniff, curious. “Even if it was, it’s none of my business.” She glanced in the hallway mirror to adjust her hair. Aziraphale gazed back. “Might have to steer clear of mirrors, though.”

_Sorry_, said Aziraphale, and receded further back in her head so that the mirror reflected only her face. _I’ll have to keep an eye on that. Especially if you want your eyebrows done._

“I’ll say,” she said. “I think I’ll get a mud bath, too. And one of those hot stones massages. I’ve never tried those before. Ooh, and a mani-pedi. I think I’ll get French tips.”

_How au courant. I hear they’re back in. _

As it turned out, Aziraphale didn’t have to worry too much about keeping his thoughts to himself. Madame Tracy had too much going on in her own head to have time to go rummaging around in his mental lockbox of anxieties. They were puttering along on the road to Chichester when he first realised that her protestations about destiny and natal charts were just that. There was trouble in witchfinder paradise.

_“I mean, I suppose I brought it on myself in a way,”_ she said, inside her head, as she steered her little scooter around a mini roundabout. _“I was very adamant about the fact that I’d retired, but sometimes he insists on acting as though he _rescued_ me. As if I had nothing to do with the decision.”_

_Rescued you from what? _said Aziraphale.

_“Oh, the usual. Executive relief. It’s like that song, _Roxanne_ – you know?”_

_No _said Aziraphale, whose firsthand knowledge of The Police was more Bow Street Runners than Sting. _But I’ll take your word for it._

_“It’s about a man who tells a woman she doesn’t have to ‘put on the red light’ any more because he’ll look after her. Which is nice and all, but I’m old enough and daft enough to look after myself, thank you very much.”_

_Ah. Yes. I can see how that would come off as condescending._

Madam Tracy made a rude gesture at a Hyundai that had almost deposited her, the scooter and Aziraphale into the verge. “Men,” she said, out loud. “Always have to have the last word.”

Aziraphale, conscious of the fact that – under circumstances more normal than these – he was a man-shaped being, elected to keep his disembodied mouth shut.

As they were signing into the spa, a sleek white limo pulled up outside and Michael stepped out. She was distracted, tapping at her phone as she entered the building. She breezed past a large vase of calla lilies and looked Madame Tracy up and down. If Aziraphale had had a heart at that moment, it would have begun to race.

“Is that your scooter?” said Michael, inclining her head.

“Yes,” said Madame Tracy.

“Lambretta?”

“Vintage Vespa, actually.”

Michael nodded. “Nice,” she said, and swept off, phone chiming once again.

_That’s her,_ said Aziraphale. _That’s the one we have to watch._

_“Why?”_

_Espionage. She’ll be on her phone at every opportunity, so stick close so that I can listen, all right?_

_“This is all very exciting,”_ said Madame Tracy. _“It’s not another one of those apocalypses again, is it?”_

_Not this time, no. This is just some old-fashioned, much-needed snooping._

_“Can’t you hack into her phone?”_

_What’s that?_

_“Phone hacking,” _said Madame Tracy._ “It was in all the papers. They had an inquiry and everything.”_

_So they did, _said Aziraphale, vague recollection stirring. _I’m afraid I’m not very good with technology._

_“No, me neither. Back in my day it was all business cards in phone boxes. It’s all webcams these days…”_

They carried on into the spa. Madame Tracy said something about how she’d once had ‘a webcam for the wee’, briefly terrifying Aziraphale, who thought he was about to learn far more than he’d ever needed to know about watersports. But it was all right. Apparently it was spelled W-I-I and was some kind of keep fit thing, which was a relief. He was also very relieved he’d decided to do this his way instead of going with Crowley’s suggestion of simply changing sex, because the presence of an archangel was doing terrible things to his angelic nature. Michael was a threat, and the principality responded accordingly, eyes blinking open. If he had been in his own body, Aziraphale knew, he would have struggled to keep his wings in check. As it was, he had too many metaphysical eyes and had a hell of a time keeping all of the bloody things decently averted while Madame Tracy slipped out of her clothes and into a fluffy towelling robe and matching slippers.

_“Monogrammed, too,”_ she said, as she soaked her feet in a lavender scented foot Jacuzzi. _“This is all very fancy.”_

_I know, _said Aziraphale, gazing enviously as the waitress offered Madame Tracy a nicely chilled Bellini, made with what looked like fresh peach juice. _Do they have men’s spa days?_

_“I think so, yes.”  
_

_ I must come back. Preferably with an actual body next time. I do love a good foot massage._

_ "Shh. Here she comes.”_

Michael wandered past, phone still glued to one ear. “…no, no. Let inhuman resources worry about that…it’s a personnel thing. No, don’t worry about the whole outsourcing situation either…yeah, it’s ongoing, but I think I’ve got a handle on it…” She gave a wry, polite laugh. “Yeah…yeah, I know. Two halves of the same headache. Can’t really action that directly…directives or something…uh huh. Yeah. Ineffable, as in we can’t eff him up…”

Aziraphale shuddered, no easy feat when you didn’t have a body.

_“Are you all right?”_ Madame Tracy asked.

_Did she just use ‘action’ as a verb?_

_“I think so, yes.”_

_Oh dear. How very upsetting._

The verbal assault continued beyond the foot spas and into the mud baths. Aziraphale was reluctantly privy to the notion of something called an ‘idea shower’ and then discovered that the laws of mathematics apparently no longer held water, on account of everyone giving one hundred and ten percent. He learned that it was very important to have everyone singing from the same hymn sheet, which might have been literal but probably wasn’t, since angels had been singing the music of the spheres since the beginning of time, and even angels as crashingly incompetent as Aziraphale himself were in no need of a hymn sheet to remind them how. He also learned that some things known only as verticals required a paradigm shift for maximum synergy, and that you didn’t require a physical head to have the beginnings of an absolutely blinding headache.

_“It’s all Greek to me,”_ said Madame Tracy.

_Not to me. Can you imagine if Homer had heard this noise? Scream, oh muse…_

_“I quite fancy Greece. Maybe I should do a Shirley Valentine. Show him I’m still an independent woman.”_

Aziraphale had been trying to steer very clear of Madame Tracy’s matrimonial grumbles, lest he accidentally encounter a stray sexual thought about Shadwell. _Have you talked to him about this?_ he said, unable to resist the urge to help. _How you feel? I realise I’m not in the best position to be handing out relationship advice, but I’m told that communication is the key to it all._

_“We don’t really go in much for talking about our feelings. It makes him uncomfortable.”_

_Yes, I know how _that_ goes. _Aziraphale sighed. _How much can they hold in without exploding like Vesuvius, do you think? Sometimes he even smells like a volcano, although that might just be…him._

_“I have no idea,” _said Madame Tracy._ “All I know is that it has to come out one way or another. It always does. You can spend your whole life keeping a stiff upper lip and holding it all inside, but that stress has to come out somewhere. That’s how you end up paying women to dress up like a St. Trinian’s schoolgirl and beat you on the bottom with a copy of Burke’s Peerage.”_

_Madame!_

She smothered a grin. _“Oh, I could tell you some stories.”_

_I bet you could._

However, she didn’t get to elaborate, because Michael meandered back in, still talking. “…as a matter of fact, I’m not even in London, so I have no idea what you’re talking about…”

Aziraphale did, though. He actually recognised that sentence as English.

“…no, I’m serious. It’s my spa day. Whatever’s going on in London is nothing to do with me.”

Even better. He’d understood more than one sentence. This was progress.

“…no, there’s no plan,” Michael said. “I told you. It’s very simple. The offer remains the same. The management has set up an agile framework for a non-interventionist hands-on solution, utilising off-payroll operatives and outsourcing.”

Inside Madame Tracy’s head, Aziraphale resumed screaming quietly and wondering what the hell language had ever done to Michael to make her want to torture it in this monstrous way.

“…extensive renumeration. As we discussed before. And a benefits package…” Michael was saying, almost comprehensibly. Then all notions of understanding flew out of Aziraphale’s (or Madame Tracy’s) head, because the Archangel Michael _laughed_.

It wasn’t a loud laugh. In fact it was so quiet it could have easily been mistaken for a stifled sneeze, but Aziraphale saw the slight crease of her corner of her mouth and realised she was actually laughing. Michael, the enforcer, the one who had wiped the smile off Satan’s face, with her sword aflame and her foot grinding down on the back of the Adversary’s neck. She had never been – now or ever – much of a giggler. “We’re not immune to fun,” she was saying. “You might even find some of our propositions amusing…” Amusing? “All right. I’ll schedule a meeting.”

_Would that be a _fun_ meeting?_ said Aziraphale. _Or an ‘amusement orientated idea shower,’ I wonder? Oh God, why did I just think that? And why can I taste beige?_

_“You can taste colours?” _asked Madame Tracy.

_No, not in general. But sensory experiences can get very strange when you’re disembodied._

“Listen, I’ll text you,” said Michael, heading for the door of the nearest treatment room. “My masseuse is ready for me.”

And that was that. After a hot stone massage, a sauna and a cold plunge, Aziraphale and Madame Tracy headed back to Bognor, none the wiser for their experience, although Madame Tracy was extremely happy with her French mani-pedi. “Espionage is so glamorous,” she said, as the Vespa bounced over the speed bumps of the tidy, suburban streets. “It’s just a shame you didn’t get much out of it.”

_Well, that’s my fault. I’m not sure what I was expecting, really. She always kept her cards close to her chest, that one, even in the days before they invented business gibberish. Oh…oh my God. Oh _fuck.

This last was in reference to the scene that greeted them as they turned into the close where Madame Tracy lived. The first thing they saw was the ambulance. The second thing was Shadwell, who was dressed as Oliver Cromwell and clutching the Yorkshire terrier. The third thing – and most concerning thing, from Aziraphale’s point of view – was the black, zipped body bag currently being solemnly stretchered into the back of the ambulance.

Madame Tracy removed her helmet and dismounted from the scooter. “What the hell is going on here?” The dog, conscious of an ethereal presence in his mistress’s familiar body, wriggled out of Shadwell’s arms and went berserk, wagging, jumping, licking and barking.

“I might ask you the same bleedin’ question,” said Shadwell.

“When did you get back? I thought you were—”

“—aye, well, _that_ was obvious, wasn’t it?” said Shadwell. “You thought I was out of the way so you could get back to a spot of jezebelling, didn’t you? Well, sucks to be you, Marjorie, because Roland bloody Sneddon started up again how Cromwell would never have worn this breastplate to the Battle o’ Naseby…” Here he banged himself in the chest with an emphatic clang. “An’ I said it’s all poetic license, isn’t it? Then Sneddon starts up all hoity toity ‘Well, this is a historical recreation society and there’s nae room for poetic licence, because what’s next…? We say Cromwell wore a breastplate when he didn’t and the next thing you know you’re reenacting a version o’ Naseby where the Cavaliers win.’ So I said—”

“—he didn’t,” said Madame Tracy, who had been mentally rolling her eyes throughout this entire speech. Aziraphale, who had actually been at the Battle of Naseby, had decided to weigh in and help out.

“What?” said Shadwell.

“He didn’t,” she said, trying to calm the dog. “Wear a breastplate at Naseby. Shut _up_, Percy.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert now, are ye?” he said. “And don’t you try to distract me, woman. I come home early from the fight and Percy’s barking at the spare room door because there’s a dead body in there. And not just any dead body. It was _him_ – the Southern Pansy.”

Madame Tracy heaved a long sigh. “He’s not dead,” she said.

“No?” said Shadwell, raising a grizzled eyebrow beneath the peak of his helmet. “He was stone dead. Nae pulse. Nae breath. I used yer make-up mirror and everything, like you said.”

If Aziraphale had had eyes in that moment, he would have blinked rapidly at this startling and unwanted insight into the Shadwells’ possible sex life. As he’d pointed out to Madame Tracy, you didn’t run a bookshop in Soho without learning a thing or two about the unorthodox uses of mirrors and why you should never use a tangerine instead of a lemon when attempting auto-erotic asphyxiation. Then again, he was in no position to judge. And there _was_ something about Shadwell that made people think very hard about strangulation.

“Why couldn’t you have stayed at the Sealed bloody Knot?” said Madame Tracy, trying to bring the capering dog to heel. “You weren’t supposed to come home early.”

“Aye, I gathered that. So you could go back to your whoring ways, nae doubt.”

“So what if I did?” she said, at full volume now, oblivious to both the angel in her head and the multiple net curtains twitching on the other side of the close. “I’m your _wife_, Douglas. Not your…your cause. I gave up doing executive relief because my knees were giving me grief, not so that you could pat yourself on the bloody back about virtuous you were for rescuing a scarlet woman.”

Shadwell pointed a finger. _The_ finger. “Don’t you turn this around on me, Margie,” he said. “Don’t you dare. _You_ were the one who left a dead body in the spare room.”

“He wasn’t _dead_,” she said, and Aziraphale finally stepped in.

_“She’s absolutely right,”_ he said, speaking through her once more. _“I’m not.”_

Shadwell stared at his wife. Then he stared at his index finger. And back to her. “Oh, you’ve _got_ tae be fucking joking,” he said.

_“Hello, Sergeant Shadwell,”_ said Aziraphale.

The ex-witchfinder ground his nicotine stained teeth. “What,” he said, lurching closer. “Do ye think you’re doin’ inside my wife?”

_“We had a spa day,”_ said Aziraphale.

Shadwell’s nose twitched. Madame Tracy did, it had to be said, smell extremely nice.

“Lavender and rosemary,” she said. “They dowse with crystals to hand pick the fragrances especially for you. Ever so fancy.”

For once in his life Shadwell – the very embodiment of that old maxim about empty vessels making the most noise – was speechless.

_“And they do a couples’ day on Saturdays,”_ said Aziraphale. _“We got coupons.”_

Shadwell seethed. “Get out o’ her heid,” he said, and Madame Tracy sort of fluttered in a way that – once again – explained far more than Aziraphale ever wanted to know about their relationship. “And don’t ever let me catch you in there again, d’ye ken?”

_“Absolutely,”_ said Aziraphale. _“I very much…ken. Now, could we please follow that ambulance before someone tries to perform an autopsy on me?”_

* * *

It was getting late and Crowley was getting worried.

Six o’clock came and went, then seven. How long did rare book fairs generally go on for, anyway? He tried to distract himself by looking up recipes for chicken katsu curry, but only ended up annoying himself, since Aziraphale had been the one who had taken a shine to katsu curry the last time he’d wandered into Wagamama’s in Dean Street.

At just after half past seven, his phone rang.

“So you missed the train did you?” Crowley said, before Aziraphale could get so much as a word in edgeways.

“Um…something like that, yes. I just wanted to call in case you were worried. You see, it’s been a bit of a day…”

“A bit of a day? What does _that_ mean?” It could mean anything where Aziraphale was concerned. It could just as well mean ‘I got a hangnail and accidentally damaged a mint first edition of _Tess of the D’Urbervilles_,’ as it could mean ‘Slight problem. I stepped into a summoning circle and turned myself into a small oily stain on the bookshop floor. Don’t suppose you know of a body I can borrow, do you?’

“Oh, you know,” said Aziraphale. “This and that.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You need a lift, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Crowley didn’t drive nearly as carefully as he should have.

“I mean, it’s not like he hasn’t had _time_ to learn how to drive,” he said, as he hurtled down the A3, one hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching a green tea frappucino with extra whipped cream. He’d moved past the vomiting part of the day and plunged headlong into cravings. “It wasn’t like I was around, was it? We weren’t even speaking when the first Model T’s rolled off the production line. He had time on his hands, but oh no. Why would he learn to do something useful when he could have been learning to pull fucking rabbits out of hats? Probably read it in one of his books of prophecy somewhere. Did an Agnes Nutter – didn’t understand it until after the fact, but in hindsight it made perfect sense. Scribbled in a margin somewhere. _Nineteen forty one – angel, meete thy new chauffeur_.”

The sun was beginning to set when he arrived in Bognor Regis. He found the appointed rendezvous – the war memorial – and found the angel standing next to it. Crowley debated whether he wanted to ask, but as Aziraphale slid into the passenger seat beside him he knew he was doomed to do so.

“Why do you smell of formaldehyde?” he asked.

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment. “I had a spa day,” he said.

“Weird spa.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, with one of those nervous little gulps that never meant anything good. “Now, I don’t want you to panic…”

“Nnh?”

“…it’s nothing to worry about. It’s just that I might have garnered a teensy bit of unwanted attention, but I think I’ve got the thing contained…”

“…oh no,” said Crowley, not sure if he wanted to hear what came next.

“…it was just a slight resurrection. Technically not even a resurrection, actually…”

“…fuck me, angel, what did you _do_? What was it? A pigeon? A little dog that had been knocked down by a car?” Crowley groaned and thumped both hands on the steering wheel in despair. “How many times have we been through this, Aziraphale? Don’t raise the dead in public. _People notice_.”

“Darling, will you please calm down?” said Aziraphale. “This is not good for your blood pressure. This is why I didn’t want to tell you, on account of your delicate condition—”

“—delicate? Uh no. Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’m not the same hellfire repelling badass I was before, okay?” said Crowley. “What did you do, angel? Who did you resurrect?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Me,” he said.

And that was how Crowley found himself listening to Aziraphale’s frankly demented plan to stalk Michael on her spa day by concealing himself in the brain of a retired dominatrix. And how it had all been going ever so well until Shadwell had come home early from reenacting the English Civil War_s_ and – while still dressed as Oliver Cromwell – found Aziraphale lying motionless, breathless and apparently deceased in his wife’s spare room.

"It was very awkward,” said Aziraphale. “My body was in a morgue locker, so we had to get to the hospital so I could slip back into it. Unfortunately I was already in a body bag, which is _not_ an experience I would recommend. I hope the morgue attendant will be all right. Luckily I managed to find my body before they tried to perform a post-mortem. That would have a nightmare. Heaven’s unlikely to issue me with another body as it is, never mind listen to an explanation of how this one happened to get the top of its head sawn off.”

Crowley flung open the door of the Bentley and threw up in the gutter.

“Oh, darling. Are you all right?”

Crowley shook his head and spat. “I revise my previous statement,” he said, when the dry heaves subsided. “Please continue to worry about my delicate condition, and for fuck’s sake don’t _say_ things like that while I’m knocked up.”

Aziraphale, who had been miracling near glacial quantities of ice water since this thing had begun, handed him a glass. Crowley gulped and realised – with mounting horror – that Aziraphale had been listening to Michael all day. And that he’d probably heard her on the phone with Crowley.

“Did you…?” he said, wracking his brains for anything that might have given him away. “Did you hear anything useful? While you were following her around the spa?”

“Not really,” said Aziraphale. “It’s absurd. I can speak almost every human language, living or dead, and yet everything that comes out of her mouth is just…it’s just noise to me. There are words involved but none of them actually _mean_ anything. I know the tongues of angels are supposed to be incomprehensible, but that’s just taking the proverbial. I’m sorry, but it really is. How am I supposed to cope with people using _impact_ as a transitive verb, for goodness sake? And they’re not even talking about wisdom teeth.” Aziraphale gave a small shudder. “And that’s not even the worst of it. You know what else I heard?”

Crowley sucked his teeth in thought for a moment. “Core values?”

“Worse,” said Aziraphale. “_Impactful_.”

“Oof,” said Crowley. Even he felt that one.

“Doesn’t that make something shrivel deep down in the roots of your soul? I needed a strong cup of tea and a lie down when I heard that one.”

“Yeah, well – let’s go home. Sooner we get back to London the sooner we can do both.”

“I’m so sorry, darling,” said Aziraphale, squeezing his hand on the gearstick. “Here I am, ranting away, and you’ve come all this way to pick me up. And especially when you should be resting.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re remarkably chatty for someone so recently deceased?”

“I wasn’t dead. I was just…” Aziraphale sighed. “Remind me not to do that again, won’t you?”

“Angel, trust me on this,” said Crowley. “I _will_ remind you. Frequently. In fact there’s a very strong possibility that I may spend the rest of my life reminding you not to do that again, so prepare yourself for that.”

Aziraphale sat quiet and chastened. Crowley put on a CD of Holst, which hadn’t been in the car for long and consequently behaved itself for a while until the beginning of _Jupiter_ began to morph – not entirely unpleasantly – into the intro to _Seven Seas of Rhye_. Occasionally Aziraphale hummed softly, or sighed, one of those many sounds that Crowley associated with the workings of angelic mental machinery. As the Bentley entered the Hindhead Tunnel, Aziraphale finally spoke.

“Listen,” he said. “I want to say something.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I want you to know that I’m not upset that you turned down my proposal.”

“Really?” said Crowley. “I thought we’d covered this?”

“No, we didn’t, though, did we?” said Aziraphale. “We just sort of grunted back and forth at each other like we always do when we’re trying to avoid talking about anything difficult.”

“Yeah? Is that approach not working for you any more?”

“I love you.”

Oh shit. Seeing the inside of a body bag had obviously done a bit of a number on him. “I love you, too,” said Crowley. “But you don’t…you don’t have to do this, whatever it is that you’re doing. I know you love me. It’s okay.”

Aziraphale huffed. “No. Let me try this again,” he said. “What I’m _trying_ to say is that I can see how it must have annoyed you. Me blundering in like that, as if you were some poor scarlet woman who needed to be rescued from sin by virtue of holy matrimony. I just want you to know that I don’t see you that way. I know perfectly well that you don’t need to be rescued.”

Crowley reached over and patted him briefly on the knee. “It’s all right,” he said. “You can rescue me if you like. Just a bit. I don’t mind.”

It was dark by the time they got back to the bookshop. The city night was hot and muggy and Aziraphale smelled ever more strongly of dead things. He’d clearly had a day of it, and as they entered the shop Crowley caught him shooting a yearning glance at the drinks cabinet, but of course Aziraphale was too damn polite to hit the whiskey while Crowley was forced to abstain.

After a few brief moments of unspecified celestial putterings-about, Aziraphale finally noticed the large empty table in the middle of his bookshop and frowned. “Wait,” he said. “What on earth happened here? Crowley, did you…_sell books_?”

“I did,” said Crowley. “Shifted the entire job lot of _Fifty Shades of Grey_.” He took a bow. “Don’t thank me. Just applaud.”

Aziraphale did neither.

“What?” said Crowley. “_You_ didn’t want them.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Aziraphale. “But it’s the cycle, dear.”

“The what?”

“The cycle. It’s a secondhand bookshop phenomenon. It’s…” He made a vague spinning gesture with both hands. “It’s sort of like the water table, but with insipid pornography. And Dan Brown.”

“Dan Brown? What? _The Da Vinci Code_ guy?”

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale. “At one point I was inundated with donated copies of that ridiculous book. Same thing with _Fifty Shades of Grey_. Massive print runs, buckets of controversy, but the books don’t live up to the hype. You may think you sold those books, Crowley, but the books know better. What you did was release them back into the wild so that they can continue the cycle.”

“What cycle? What are you on about?”

“Disappointment,” said Aziraphale. “Take _Fifty Shades of Grey_, for example. People still buy it because they’re under the impression that it’s filthy—”

“—yeah, I don’t know where they’d get that impression either—”

“—and then they get it home—”

“—crack open the hand lotion,” said Crowley.

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale. “And then discover that they’d have more success masturbating to memories of the last time they had their teeth scraped. And that’s how the cycle continues, you see. If it was a _really_ dirty book it would be kept in the drawer of the bedside cabinet and stickily cherished, but it’s not, so it gets passed on. Lent. Donated. And that’s how the cycle continues. The book ends up in the nearest charity shop or secondhand bookshop, regardless of how loudly those shops beg people not to donate any more of the benighted things. But they do, and before you know it that old lady from the Cancer Research place is sneaking out in the darkest dead of night to deposit another Waitrose bag of _Fifty Shades_ novels on my bloody doorstep.”

Crowley shook his head. “Shit. I’m sorry. Does this mean they’re going to come back?”

“Oh yes. They always do. But never mind. You weren’t to know.” Aziraphale leaned in and kissed Crowley lightly on the jaw to show there were no hard feelings. Crowley instinctively reeled back from the smell.

“Sorry,” he said. “But you literally smell like death right now.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I know. I’m going to have a bath, I think.”

“Want some company?”

“That might be nice.”

“Want to wash my hair?”

“Mm. Scalp massage?”

“Now you’re talking my language.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * It would. They always did.


	5. Angry Birds (And Other Needlepoint Oddities)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes a deal. Aziraphale takes up cross stitch. It’s a lot more dramatic than it sounds: trust me.

Crowley’s tortured stomach lurched as the lift climbed higher. It wasn’t enjoying the altitude or the company, an unknown angel who smelled of void and kept their eyes front at all times. Sometimes it was downright impossible to think of Aziraphale as being cut from the same cloth as these bland, obedient creatures. Almost as impossible as it was for Crowley to remember that he had once been one himself.

Something shifted inside him and he had a sudden urge to pee.

_Yeah, great timing, kiddo. I have a meeting with a being who absolutely _cannot_ know about our little situation, and this is the day you choose to start leaning heavily on my bladder._

The lift stopped. He stepped out into a white boardroom, with a long white table. The panoramic windows offered a spectacular view of the winding Thames, and for some reason the first thing his eye settled on was the Tower, the old Norman keep of the White Tower looking like a model from this height. It looked so peaceful, but heads had rolled there. Stuck on spikes outside Traitor’s Gate. Bile bubbled up in the back of his throat.

Michael, who had been sitting at the end of the long white table, raised her head from her paperwork. “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Take a seat.”

There were only two chairs, at either of end of the comically long table. Crowley took the vacant one. In front of him was a buff manila folder. “Can you hear me from over there?” he said. “Or am I going to need a megaphone?”

“No, I can hear you perfectly well,” said Michael, as clearly as if she’d been sitting next to him. “Shall we get started? If you’d like to examine the contract…”

Crowley opened the folder. It was written in the usual parlance of Heaven, cold, opaque, and full of potential loopholes. His stomach lurched again and he tried to think of nice things. Fun things, like Saturday morning cartoons…oh shit, no. Hastur had only gone and fucking ruined those forever, hadn’t he?

“Kids,” said Crowley, deciding to get right to the point.

“I’m sorry?”

“Children. I won’t do anything that will kill, hurt, main, damage or traumatise children. That’s my first line in the sand.”

“Noted,” said Michael, and the words on the page in front of Crowley rearranged themselves.

“Second line, don’t ask me to do anything that will step on Hell’s toes. I don’t need that kind of aggravation.”

“All right.” The words rearranged themselves again.

“Third,” said Crowley. “We need to discuss the benefits package.”

“It’s a standard package,” said Michael. “Working for us will endow you with a certain measure of Heavenly Protection.”

“Go on. And how would that work? In English, by the way.”

“It bestows a blessing upon your corporeal form. Not complete invulnerability, but a level of protection that you might find useful.”

“Useful for what?” said Crowley. His stomach was squirming all over again and he was sure he was about to redecorate this nice white boardroom in a fetching shade of pea soup green.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” said Michael, and Crowley’s skin suddenly felt warm and tight. Light bloomed in the centre of his brain and the chambers of his heart. It was like a milder, blander version of the light that Aziraphale sometimes poured into him when they made love, and his first reaction was to panic, because he had no idea what this was going to do to the baby.

“What did you just do to me?” he said.

“A temporary blessing. One that will continue for the duration of your employment should you see fit.”

Crowley glanced up, his eye drawn by movement above his head. A large sphere – one that looked like crystal but wasn’t – floated above him. It was water, and smelled of nothing. “Oh fuck…” he said, and went to move, but it was too late. The sphere of holy water rediscovered its relationship with gravity and poured down all over him. His last thought – or what he thought was his last thought – was of Aziraphale: he’d be so lonely.

But for some reason he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even smouldering. He was just wet.

Crowley sniffed. People thought water had no smell, but as Crowley – and G.K. Chesterton’s dog – knew, the fallen sons of Eve had no noses worth mentioning. Water smelled of all kinds of things, of piping and salt and chlorine and the metallic tang of ozone that fell from the sky after thunder. It smelled of minerals and sand and plastic. The only water that smelled of absolutely nothing was the water that had been sanctified by the power of Heaven, and that was how he knew what was currently dripping off the ends of his hair and soaking him down to the skin.

“That was a fucking dirty trick,” he said, taking off his glasses.

“Perhaps,” said Michael. “But you get the point.” She snapped her fingers and everything was dry again. “You could take a bath in the stuff and remain unharmed, although of course, you’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

Oh shit. If she hadn’t figured it out before, she had to have done so now. He’d given himself away in one brief moment of instinctive panic.

“You’ve never taken a bath with a rubber duck in your life, have you?” she said.

“Nope,” said Crowley. “Although I do have a pumice stone in the shape of a fish. I get a lot of hard skin on my feet.”

“I think we’ll keep that between ourselves, don’t you?”

Crowley shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I preferred you when you talked like a corporate robot.”

“It’s very simple, Crowley,” she said. “You represent an unforseen asset in the realm of outsourcing. One that we are very keen to utilise. Your cooperation would be…appreciated.”

“So you’re blackmailing me, in other words?” he said. “I sign on the dotted line and you don’t tell any of the other angels about your theory that I’m still vulnerable to holy water?”

Michael scrunched her nose. “Not really a theory any more.” She turned over the page on her contract. “Shall we continue?”

“No,” said Crowley. “Let’s not.”

“No?”

“I’ll do it,” he said, because if that blessing had somehow passed through his blood and bones and into the little thing he was hardwired to protect, then all to the better. “On one more condition.”

“What’s that?”

“He doesn’t Fall,” said Crowley. “Aziraphale. Whatever you do to me, he remains protected. He cannot Fall.”

Michael gave a soft, humourless laugh. “That’s really not my department.”

“Then speak to the boss,” said Crowley. “That’s the only benefits package that I’m interested in. Whatever protection you extend to me, you extend it to him. And then some. I want a written guarantee that he will not Fall.”

To his surprise, she took out her phone. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Crowley stifled a nervous fart and tried to ignore the urge to vomit. Oh, it was bad today. Worse than usual. The stress was doing a real number on his system. _Settle down in there, you,_ he thought, not daring to squeeze his belly. Michael was talking now, but this time he couldn’t hear her. Sound and distance behaved normally once more. _Settle down. You’re all right in there. Your mother knows what he’s doing._

Michael put down the phone. “All right,” she said, once again as clear as if she was sitting beside him.

“All right?”

“Yes. All right. I think we can manage that for you.” The words on the page rearranged themselves again. Crowley through the whole thing twice and then – with a silent, infernal prayer that he hadn’t fucked this one up – deposited his fiery signature on the dotted line. At the other end of the table Michael signed her copy, and Crowley saw her signature burn white-gold on his copy, too.

“Nice,” he said. “So they duplicate themselves?”

“Cuts down on the need for carbon paper,” she said. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“Definitely not,” said Crowley.

“We’ll be in touch.”

“I know. That’s what worries me.”

He kept it together in the lift. Lasted all seventy-three floors, although he did almost have a small meltdown in the thirties. He pulled it together, stepped off at the ground floor and then raced for the nearest toilet to toss up his chai latte, the one thing he’d manage to wrangle down his throat that morning in the face of Aziraphale’s merciless solicitude and insistence that he must have _something_.

Sweat stood out cold on his forehead. Fuck, this was horrible. He’d never felt so bad. Not even that time when that stupid poster had got under his skin and driven him to find out what the walls in Hell tasted like. Or when he’d come down with the actual Black Death, which he wasn’t even supposed to be able to get, but turned out to be virulent enough to infect a demon. That had been pretty dreadful, what with his inner thighs, armpits and neck swelling up in buboes like dark, suppurating grapefruits, but at least it hadn’t left him as emotionally unstable as the terrible hormone soup currently surging through his veins and brain.

A weird, loud honking sound exploded out of him. He covered his mouth, but it was no use. He knelt there for a long while, making a series of increasingly bizarre noises while tears poured down his cheeks, his other hand clutching the new, frightening fullness below his waist. “I’m sorry,” he said, under his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry. I had to. I had to do it.”

* * *

Crowley returned to the bookshop a little later, his feelings stuffed down inside like clothes in an overpacked suitcase. Sure, the thing was bulging disturbingly and would probably cause controversy at the baggage check-in, but for now the zips and locks were doing what they were supposed to do. It was fine. All contained. Under control.

“Oh, there you are,” said Aziraphale, who had flipped the shop sign to closed and was doing something worrying with the big cabbalistic circle thing under the rug. “Was beginning to wonder where you’d got to.”

“Sainsbury’s,” said Crowley, setting down the shopping bag he’d filled as a cover. “What are you doing with that? Isn’t that where you…?” He described a circle with his finger, then jabbed upwards.

“It’s all right. It’s not on.”

“It seems dangerous.”

“It’s not. I promise you.” Aziraphale came over to peer into the grocery bag. “What have you been buying?”

Crowley distracted him with a packet of chocolate Hob Nobs. “What are you up to, angel?”

“Right now? Well, since there are biscuits, I suppose I should make us a nice cup of tea.”

Perhaps it was because Crowley was paranoid, but he couldn’t help that Aziraphale was being needlessly fluffy, fluffier than usual. It was the same wide-eyed cluelessness he’d feigned when Crowley had had to rescue him from the Bastille. In fact, Crowley had suspected more than once that Aziraphale _liked_ tying himself to the metaphorical traintracks, mainly because it was the most effective way of getting Crowley’s attention. He’d dismissed that suspicion as unkind, but long experience had taught him that when the angel dived deep into his loveable scatterbrain routine, it usually meant he was Up To Something.

In the fridge in the kitchenette was a dish of roast pork chow mein from last night’s Chinese takeaway. Crowley, his stomach as close to settled as it ever got these days, cracked open the lid and dived into the noodles, not even bothering to reheat them.

“Really?” said Aziraphale. “You know, half of your digestive discomfort is probably due to your habit of wolfing things down while standing up in the kitchen.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. The other night you stress ate an entire container of potato salad and you didn’t sit down once. You didn’t even close the fridge.”

“I’m _hungry_,” said Crowley, planting a greasy, pork-flavoured kiss on the side of Aziraphale’s neck. “Baby’s got a big appetite. Takes after you. Anyway, don’t try to distract me by nagging. What are you doing with the old magic circle in there? You’ve already ended up in a morgue once, and you know what happened the last time you messed around trying to talk to God on that thing. I know you say you don’t want me to be a single mother, but it feels like you’re doing everything you possibly can to make that happen.”

“I told you: it’s not on,” said Aziraphale, taking tea and biscuits out to the coffee table. Crowley followed, still eating.

“All right. Then what are you up to?”

“Summoning,” said Aziraphale. “Finding a way to bind angels to your will.”

Crowley flopped on the couch. “Is that possible?”

“Of course.”

“Why did I never know tha…” He stopped in response to Aziraphale’s raised eyebrow. “Seriously? You didn’t trust me not to summon you?”

“You would have summoned me to finish an argument,” said Aziraphale. “And don’t look at me like that. You know you would.”

Crowley reached for his tea. “Fine,” he said. “Maybe a bit.”

“A lot.”

“Have you ever been summoned before?”

“Oh yes. A few times.”

“Who? Who summoned you?”

“Sir Isaac Newton,” said Aziraphale, nibbling on a chocolate biscuit. “Very difficult personality. I think he just wanted the company, to be honest, although it turned out we had a shared interest in prophecy, which was nice. And John Dee, _obviously_, but I wasn’t particularly flattered by his attentions. I mean, he’d summon anything that moved, that one. Oh, and then there was the American. That one was unfortunate.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Well, he insisted he was trying to summon a demon, you see,” said Aziraphale. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer. He said ‘You’re a demon if I say you’re a demon,’ and I said ‘No, I’m definitely not. Trust me, I know demons very well and I assure you I’m not one. Could never pull off a zoot suit, for a start.’”

_Zoot suit?_ Crowley mouthed.

“It was the fifties,” said Aziraphale. “Anyway, he got very agitated and poked me in the chest. I stumbled backwards and accidentally knocked something off the edge of his lab bench with my elbow, and that’s when it got a bit…explosive.” He shrugged. “Fulminate of mercury, apparently. Almost ended in an awkward paperwork situation for me. Ended ahead of schedule for him, of course. Awful mess.”

“You never told me this before,” said Crowley.

“Well, it wasn’t important, at least not to us.” Aziraphale sighed. “I felt terrible about the whole thing, but he was a silly man. Head full of brains, but no common sense whatsoever. I’m sure you know the sort.”

“Yeah, I do,” said Crowley. Sometimes Aziraphale had all the self-awareness of soil, and he didn’t like to think what it said about him that Crowley found it charming almost as often as he found it infuriating. “What was his name?”

“Oh…Alan? I want to say Alan. I don’t know why.” Aziraphale screwed up his nose in thought. “Parsons. Definitely Parsons, I remember that much.”

“_The Alan Parsons Project_?”

“Rings a bell. He certainly had quite a few projects going on when I was there.”

Crowley took a long slurp of hot tea. His stomach felt slightly better, which wasn’t saying much. “So why are you trying to summon angels? Can’t you just phone them?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m not trying to summon them. I’m trying to keep the buggers away.” He perched a half eaten chocolate biscuit on the edge of the coffee table and cracked open another book. A tome, really. All of the books currently around him looked like they would answer to _tome_ a lot more readily than mere book. They were full of occult squiggles and esoteric drawings. “Now, it follows that if you can summon angels you can also tell them to piss off. Equal and opposite reactions and all that.”

“You’ve never looked into this before? Ever.”

“I didn’t have to,” said Aziraphale, glancing up over the rims of his pointless glasses. “Or at least, I didn’t think I had to. I’m not like you, Crowley. I spent all those years under the illusion that my people were the good guys. When you asked me for holy water I couldn’t conceive of needing that kind of insurance policy against one’s boss. It didn’t even cross my mind at the time. That’s how naïve I was. Besides, even if it had occurred to me, I never would have dared.”

“But you dare now?”

“I think I rather have to, don’t you?” His hand settled on Crowley’s knee and squeezed, and Crowley swallowed hard, head once again spinning. Aziraphale was trying to angel-proof the bookshop, and Crowley hadn’t even got around to explaining to him that even if they did survive the wrath of both Heaven and Hell, they would also have to baby-proof the fucking place. There were all kinds of things to take into consideration. Covers for electrical sockets, foam corners for tables. Stair gates. He’d been through all of that with Warlock, and remembered being astonished by the sheer number of ways young humans seemed determined to off themselves. You had to lock up the bleach and the pills and the alcohol, screw the bookshelves into the walls in case they decided to climb. And now they lived in a place full of bookshelves and booze, and Crowley wasn’t even sure if you could buy covers that would fit the kind of electrical sockets they had here, because most of them dated from the nineteenth century, a time where children had licked lead paint from their toys and frequently died of laudanum overdoses from gripe water, if they hadn’t already been poisoned by the arsenic in the nursery wallpaper.

For a moment this morning he had allowed himself to believe he’d done something to protect this little creature of theirs. Something big, even. But it was nothing, because there were still a million and one another things he would have to do to keep the kid safe, and none of them seemed even slightly adequate. “I’m sorry,” he said, afraid that he was going to cry. Again.

“What are you sorry for?”

“For getting you into this mess,” said Crowley.

“I was under the impression that _I_ was the one who got _you_ into trouble, actually.” Aziraphale pulled him in and kissed the top of his head. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know. Glowing. Radiant.”

“Really?”

“No,” said Crowley. “Of course not. I’m sick as a fucking parrot.” He prodded his stomach. “Keep needing to pee as well. Whatever’s in here has learned to lean over and scratch its arse against the side of my bladder.”

“I didn’t think you’d be far along enough for that yet,” said Aziraphale.

“Maybe it’s precocious. Or large.” Crowley glanced nervously up at the now enormous creeping fig. “What kind of birth weight do you think we’re looking at?”

“No idea,” said Aziraphale. “As far as I know, nobody has ever given birth to an angel/demon hybrid before, never mind recorded its birth weight. Although…” He trailed off too quickly, in a way that Crowley knew meant nothing good.

“What?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale looked maddeningly innocent. “What?”

“You said ‘although’ and then stopped. What was the rest of that thought?”

“Fine,” said Aziraphale, with an eyeroll. “If you really will insist on torturing yourself…” He sighed. “I was just thinking that in some translations ‘nephilim’ is translated as ‘giants.’ That’s all.”

“Giants?” Crowley crossed his legs. He regretted not crossing them sooner. And he still had no idea which hole this thing (or things) was coming out of. None of them sounded appealing, but one in particular filled him with a very special kind of fear. “Are you telling me I might have to squeeze a baby giant out of my—”

“—_no_. It’s probably just a translation error. Anyway, I’ve met nephilim. None of them were giants.”

“Yes, but did any of them discuss their birth weight with you? What are we talking? Normal seven pounder, or a thirteen pound nightmare that leaves you drying the stitches with a hairdryer on cold for several months afterwards?”

“It didn’t really come up,” said Aziraphale. “I know nephilim are strange, but not so strange that they make casual conversation about the state of their mothers’ perineums. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. It’s not as though everything in the Bible is accurate, especially when it comes to angels. Like how it says the Lord placed cherubim at the gates of Eden.”

Crowley’s buttocks unclenched slightly. He decided to keep his legs crossed, just in case. “True,” he said, staring up at the fig once more.

“Exactly. As if cherubim would be doing _that_ kind of thing. That’s the kind of low level grunt work you foist on principalities, like muggins here.” Aziraphale sighed again and followed the direction of Crowley’s anxious gaze. “Really must trim that down at some point,” he said. “It’s getting in the way of the skylight, and I need to see the sky.”

“Why?”

“You generally need to see the stars for summoning, you see,” said Aziraphale, standing up and smoothing down the front of his elderly velvet waistcoat. He waved a finger at the ceiling. “Heavenly communication. One of the reasons I bought this place, actually – the roof lantern over the rotunda. Next best thing to an observatory, which is the ideal place to attempt communication with Heaven, of course, although saying that I _did_ manage to get the Metatron on this old thing…”

“Yes,” said Crowley. He got up and gently steered Aziraphale out of the circle. “I know. I remember. _Please_ put the rug back. You’re making me _very_ nervous, and I’m already feeling sick.”

“Poor you,” said Aziraphale. “Why don’t you go and have a nice lie down?”

Crowley knew this was Aziraphale’s way of saying ‘please go away and leave me to it’, but he took the hint. It was better than staying put, because the locks on the suitcase of his feelings were creaking alarmingly, as though the whole thing were about to burst open so violently that his metaphorical underpants would end up hanging off the nearest wing of the fighting angels statue. And then a whole new fight would break out, one not nearly as (fine, okay) fucky-looking as the one going on between the marble combatants on the plinth. There would be screaming, probably tears, and Aziraphale asking him over and over again if he’d finally lost his mind, a question to which even Crowley no longer knew the answer. 

* * *

There were always Consequences.

Aziraphale knew that now. It couldn’t all be sex and ice cream for breakfast. Even the pleasure of sleep was a double-edged sword, now that he’d discovered not only dreams, but also nightmares. He hadn’t quite reached the naked-in-front-of-the-boss level of anxiety dreams yet, but he was sure it was only a matter of time and stress. And he was buggered if he was going to lie next to Crowley with a headful of nightmares. Poor Crowley had enough of his own to contend with.

It was another hot night. The shaker of Tom Collins on the coffee table had long since melted. His fluffy white dressing gown lay abandoned on the back of a chair, and he sat curled on the couch, naked and sweaty, stretching out his wings. The skin under his pinky ring was sore from constant nervous twisting, and to that end Aziraphale – always one for distractions – had sought out something else to do with his hands. At first he’d tried palming coins, but the monotony of it had only left his mind to roam free. He’d contemplated knitting but remembered he could never get the tension right, so instead he’d taken up cross stitch. He’d found a book in the Handicrafts section and been charmed by a design of swimming ducks that had looked just perfect for a nursery.

His wings gently fanned the hot air behind him as he stitched. They ached, with a steady throb that had settled into the backs of his ribs.

Form shaped nature, and he’d given his own form a few too many nudges in the direction of its human disguise over the millennia. He wasn’t supposed to feel hunger, but as soon as he discovered he liked food, he began to experience the desire to eat. He wasn’t sure he experienced hunger in the same way that a human would – since he wouldn’t actually die without food – but he’d come to feel like it was important, and his body seemed to agree. His mouth watered. His stomach growled.

It was the same with sleep. Those post-coital naps and long, cuddly winter sleeps had done something to his body. His flesh _expected_ sleep now, and it was getting hard to deny its need.

Similarly it was getting just as hard to deny the pain in the roots of his wings. The prospect of fatherhood was playing merry hell with his nature as a principality. For all form shaped nature, flesh and all its pleasures hadn’t quite managed to erode Aziraphale’s. Unseen eyes blinked open. His wings ached. For all inspiration seemed determined to elude him, the other aspect of his angelic power was burning so bright that it was shining through the seams in his corporation. When he’d got out of the bath the other night he’d been drying off and found a fresh mark on his stomach, one of those painless, curious little fault lines where the skin gave way like a crack in cooling lava, pulled apart by the bulge of heated, overindulgent flesh beneath. They usually came in pink and turned to white, but this time he could see gold shining through the translucent skin.

“Oh, I am _far_ too close to the surface these days,” he said, under his breath, as he snipped the thread and looked down at his work.

Something had gone wrong. Again. Instead of the ducks on the pattern, he had stitched something quite different. There were birds, yes, but they were bluebirds instead of ducks. And in large, neat, pink letters he had stitched a single word. FUCK.

“Oh dear,” he said, and put it on the pile with the others. The first time he’d tried to do lettering he’d been delighted to find how easy it was, only to sit back and realise that his needle apparently knew him better than he did. He’d been going for HOME SWEET HOME, but what he’d actually sewn was ACTUALLY I AM QUITE CROSS. The second attempt was no better, yielding IN FACT I’M RATHER FURIOUS, and from then on it had just degenerated into outright obscenities. His stitching was not so much cross as fully enraged.

“Hopeless,” he said. “This is supposed to be a contemplative pursuit that might offer me some spark of inspiration, but oh no. _I_ have to turn it into an exercise in anger management.”

There was something here. There _had_ to be. He’d read every last book he owned on the subject of summoning and exorcisms, but he still hadn’t found a way that would make his bookshop angelproof. Angels went pretty much wherever they liked. There was a reason that ‘where angels fear to tread’ was an expression, because there weren’t many places that answered to that description.* 

He’d come up with ideas before, after all, with only hours to spare. He would never forget that night, alone with his thoughts in Crowley’s bizarre flat. Crowley, who had far better manners than he would ever admit, had tried so hard to keep his eyes open, but it had been a lost cause. He’d been so exhausted that his big yellow eyes had been rolling back in his head, and he’d slept where he fell, sideways on the couch, the ash-streaked spikes of his hair brushing against the side of Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale had shaken him a couple of times, but it was no use: Crowley had grown too accustomed to sleep, and besides, he’d stopped time, a considerable feat. He’d been – as they said – out for the count.

And so that’s where he’d stayed, snoring quietly against the cushion Aziraphale had managed to slide beneath his cheek. And as the moon traced its shallow arc across the summer sky and gave way to an uncertain dawn, Aziraphale had watched him, alone with his thoughts, none of them pleasant.

This, Aziraphale had told himself, was it. He’d known he was going to Fall. That much was obvious. They’d handed him a uniform, told him to fight and he had said no. He was finished and he’d made his peace with that. But him? Crowley? He’d already Fallen. They couldn’t hold that over him, and so they’d have to think of something worse.

Aziraphale thought he could stand Falling. What he couldn’t stand was the idea of being without Crowley. They had become two halves of a whole, their essential opposites. Good and evil. Light and dark. Fire and water. And there…that was where he’d found his inspiration. Fire written on the singed scrap of prophecy in his hand. Water in the unholy puddle on the floor of Crowley’s study. A simple twist of logic and suddenly everything made sense.

But not tonight. Tonight inspiration eluded him again. Pale morning light was beginning to filter through the leaves of the creeping fig, and Aziraphale admitted defeat and went up to bed.

Crowley was sleeping almost as deeply as he had that night when the world didn’t end. Only it had ended, in a way, because the world they had now was immeasurably different from the one that had come before it. This world was the one where they were free to do things that had been impossible in the previous one, silly, huge little things like embracing, kissing, trading endearments. So many wonderful new liberties, like sharing a bed, sliding beneath the covers and letting their limbs touch and tangle, lying nose to nose and belly to belly, or just this – watching him sleep and marvelling at the pliant, sprawled out shapes of him, his upturned hand with the fingers loosely curled, the long line of his lower leg against the edge of the mattress, the scaly toes of his large foot pointed like those of a dancer.

Aziraphale ran his hand over Crowley’s rumpled hair, then wrestled his wings back under control and slipped into his side of the bed. He lay there for a long, anxious while, stretched out on his back, fighting the desire to twist the ring on his little finger.

As he’d feared, his anxiety must have seeped across the pillows and into Crowley’s sleep, because Crowley groaned and rolled over, the edge of the duvet skimming the crest of his bare, bony hip. He smelled better today, only slightly scorched instead of outright sulphurous, and as he reached out he buried his face in the side of Aziraphale’s neck, breathing deeply. He trailed kisses up over Aziraphale’s ear and into his hair, inhaling with low, groaning breaths. “You smell lovely,” he said, his voice growly with sleep. “What is that? Gin?”

“I’m afraid so. Will you still love me if I become a complete soak?”

“Become?” said Crowley, still horribly acute for someone who had been unconscious not sixty seconds ago. He nosed in for a kiss, his tongue eagerly exploring the inside of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Mm…you taste even better than you smell.”

Aziraphale sighed and sank into the kiss. He’d been sat around all night and the only thing he’d come up with was a series of rude needlepoint samplers. Once he’d inspired great works of literature and architecture, but now he couldn’t even inspire himself to write a simple bloody romance novel, never mind come up with a way to protect Crowley and whatever small, vital thing they’d brought to life between them.

“You are so precious to me,” he said. “You have to know that.”

“No, don’t,” said Crowley, his voice still half asleep. “Please don’t say things like that, because I’ll cry. Right now I’m just a series of mood swings that also happens to be a demon.”

Aziraphale gave a low laugh, easing some of the tension he felt. “Aren’t you always?” he said, cupping Crowley’s sleep-flushed cheek. His other hand slipped below the covers, finding the edge where the silk of the skin gave way to hair. He didn’t find what he was looking for.

“I performed some…downstairs renovations,” Crowley explained, seeing his surprise. “For the duration. Whatever’s in there, I want it to be very clear about where the exit is.” He twitched up the edge of the duvet and spoke loudly to his belly. “Are you listening? You’re coming out of the stretchy, purpose-built exit, okay? Not the other one. That one doesn’t concern you, so don’t even think about it.”

This time Aziraphale laughed loudly, and mostly because it was the only thing keeping him from bursting into tears. Because he could picture it, so clearly, the way Crowley was going to talk to the child, weary and slightly outraged, but always determined to make things _fun_. And the love. Oh, the love. It was only a tiny, curled thing as yet, but it was tiny in the way the spark that causes a forest fire was tiny. It stole his breath, wrung a sob from the back of his throat and all of a sudden he was crying at the potential of it, the depth and breadth and tender ferocity of it all.

“Oh shit,” said Crowley. “What? What did I say?”

“I can feel it,” said Aziraphale. He was in tears now, too close to the surface once again, too much angel all at once. “Your love.” He kissed Crowley’s mouth, his baffled brows, the sleepy lids of his large, feline eyes. “Oh, you wonder. You absolute marvel. Look at you. You’re so full of love you can make an angel cry.”

Crowley blinked fast, eyes spilling over. “Okay, did we cover that I’m kind of volatile right now?”

“I love you,” said Aziraphale, laughing and crying all at once. “I love you so much. And you’re going to be _such_ a wonderful mother.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“No, you are. I know you are.” Aziraphale hadn’t seen it all, but he’d seen enough to know that Crowley had been a superb nanny. Her indignation over the chicken pox party had been very real, and not just because all the crying and scratching had kept her up at night. When the Dowlings had installed new pool alarms, it had been Nanny who pursed her lips and said – with that solid Scottish common sense they’d come to rely on from her – that a better insurance against drowning would surely be teaching the boy to swim.

“I don’t think I’m going to survive this,” said Crowley, snuffling back tears. “My emotions are already cranked up to eleven and I’m not even showing yet. Fucking hormones have done a real number on my brain. I’m turning into a mad person with terrible judgement…”

“Turning into?”

“Shut up,” said Crowley, silencing him with a kiss, rough with beard scratch, soft inside. And gentle. Always so gentle. Crowley’s teeth were sharp and his tongue could fork and flicker, but love had made him a tame snake, a tender thing who always handled Aziraphale with perfect care. At first Aziraphale had thought it was because they were trying to avoid earthquakes (and they were) but later he realised that part of that care was just Crowley. Even when they were playing rough there were still the whispered questions – are you okay? Is this all right? Is it good? – to which the only answer was yes, yes, yes, until Aziraphale found himself in full Molly bloom beneath him, toes kneading the scant flesh at the back of his thigh. 

Aziraphale reached in, found the hot, wet quick of him, two fingers searching for the place where the velvet wall always seemed thicker and softer, offering more resistance to his touch. When he pressed Crowley moaned and pushed with his tongue, fucking Aziraphale’s mouth with the same obscene eloquence as that tongue had fucked elsewhere. Three fingers now, in response to the grind of Crowley’s hips, tongues and fingers matching rhythms until Crowley begged for more.

As he entered Aziraphale hung there for a moment, trying to savour the brief blankness of mind that came with this perfect pleasure, this quiet instant of stillness and _home, _but like all perfect pleasures it was finite, and gave way almost immediately to the instinctive desire to move and rut and thrust. Crowley’s legs wrapped serpentine around him, pulling him deeper into the soft, hot clutch of his flesh. Still so gentle, but also so demanding, hips angled to ride and claim, indrawn breaths hissing – _yesss harder fuck love you yesss_ – Aziraphale’s heart roaring in his ears and his shoulders burning with the effort of keeping himself contained. Too much light, too much angel, too much _love_. Crowley was overflowing with love and despite his best efforts Aziraphale was gorging on it, the angel within him stretching its metaphysical jaws and swimming open mouthed through its element like a feeding whale. “Slowly,” he begged, but it was hopeless. His wings burst loose, rattling the light fitting above and flapping madly as he fought to remember how to do this the human way.

Thighs. Mouths. Heat. The slip and slide of Crowley on his cock. Oh, yes – there, that was better, all sweaty and inelegant, but so, so lovely. Crowley announced his orgasm with a raspy “Oh fuck,” and then he was there, taking it all with greedy strokes of his hips until Aziraphale had no choice but to follow. “I love you,” Aziraphale whispered, because this was how humans did it, after all. “I love you, I love you, I love you…” gasped against the side of Crowley’s neck as he fucked him through the aftershocks. Then Crowley gave a loud, startled moan and came _again_, the first time he’d ever done so without eldritch assistance, and so hard that Aziraphale felt something gush.

Crowley uncurled slowly, legs going slack, breaths steadying. A down feather drifted and landed, bright white against the red of his hair. The lids of his large, honey-coloured eyes were heavy, and he was flushed all the way down to his heart. Perhaps this was the famous glow that was supposed to set in at some point. He ran a long, pink tongue over his lips and smiled. “Well…that was a thing,” he said, reaching up to run a hand over the top of Aziraphale’s wing. The feathers didn’t spark this time, perhaps because they were securely in this plane of existence or perhaps because – by way of the shared life between them – they belonged as much to Crowley as they did to Aziraphale. “Multiple orgasms. Finally there’s a payoff to being a complete hormone monster for nine whole months.”

“You’re delicious. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to keep my hands off you.”

“Don’t,” said Crowley. “I’m serious. Get as much banging in as possible, because once it’s born it’s nothing but screaming, sleep deprivation and projectile vomiting.”

“Projectile what?”

“Vomiting. You should have seen Warlock go. _Exorcist _style. He could fire it all the way across the kitchen and all over the doors of Harriet Dowling’s tastefully distressed Provençal style kitchen cabinets.” Crowley ran his fingers through Aziraphale’s feathers and gave a fond smile of recollection. “You have to hand it to them when they’re that tiny. The havoc they wreak is…it’s impressive. Almost demonic.”

“Yes, well. _Our_ baby is going to be half angel, so there.”

“Oh, they all do that, too,” said Crowley. “Sometimes you’d swear they _had_ been dropped off by an angel, when they’re all fed and burped and sleepy. And they’re doing those little gummy yawns and trying to hold their eyes open when you’re singing them to sleep. It’s very sweet, really. I suppose they have to be. I mean, if they _weren’t_ adorable people would just be like ‘Eugh, it’s loud and demanding and squirts poo everywhere. Don’t want this hanging around me.’ They’d just leave them on the side of the road or something.” He swallowed a yawn and tugged gently at a primary feather. “What’s with the wings?”

“Oh, they’ve been bothering me lately. And look.” Aziraphale rolled over and pointed out the mark on his belly. “Look at this.”

Frowning, Crowley ran his fingers over the soft new stripe. The touch tingled.

“I thought it was just a stretch mark,” said Aziraphale. “But look. There’s gold underneath. Can you see it?”

“Yeah. When did that happen? I thought I was the one who was supposed to be getting stretch marks.”

“Maybe it’s a sympathy thing. I don’t know. I found it the other night when I was getting out of the bath.”

Crowley wriggled down the bed to take a closer look. “It’s like the gold leaf they wear on their faces in Heaven.”

“That’s not gold leaf.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s divine nature,” said Aziraphale. “Sometimes it breaks through the corporation in places. The way sweat-shine works its way through make up. Powder. It never used to bother me as much as it did the others, because I’ve been down here for so long. More used to keeping it in check than they were, I suppose.” He sighed and pressed his nose into the red silk of Crowley’s hair. “This whole situation has got me feeling a lot more angelic than usual. Wings. Gold. Eyes I haven’t used in ages.”

Crowley, his cheek pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest, peeked up at him. “And what’s _that_ like?”

“Confusing.”

“What can you see?”

“Angles. Possibilities. I’m not sure. Like I say, it’s confusing.”

“Can you see me?” asked Crowley. “Inside me?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, although he couldn’t be completely sure that what he saw in that moment was vision or imagination. He saw Crowley standing in their kitchen in the darkest part of the night, so tired that his eyes were closing on their own, lips moving in an exhausted lullaby against the tiny scalp cradled beneath his chin. He saw the whorls of pale, soft tangerine baby hair so clearly that he could almost smell it, whatever strange alchemy it was that transformed all those base odours of milk and urine and nappies into the pristine shine of that brand new baby smell. He pictured the fat, starfish shaped hand closing reflexively around a lock of Crowley’s hair, and Crowley’s sleepy eyes meeting his own as he walked into the room. _Look. Your hooligan child is pulling my hair again._ He saw himself untangling the tiny fingers from the red strands, and imagined the slight but infinitely precious weight settling in his arms. Big eyes, leaf-shaped like Crowley’s, but blue like his own. And wings. The baby had wings. Two little stumpy, fluffy protuberances like the useless and adorable wings of an Easter chick.

The roots of his own wings ached again, his nature making the edges of his flesh creak and groan under stress. “I’ve never had cause to feel this way before,” he said, shifting so that he could lie half on his stomach and stretch his wing over Crowley. “I’m very protective, it seems.”

“I know. I know. It’s hard.”

“I’m scared to death,” said Aziraphale, his eyes starting to close, as if in sympathy with his vision of a sleep deprived Crowley. “And it’s not even born yet. And I don’t know how to protect our child, Crowley. I should know, but I don’t.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do. You know I do. I’d trust you to the end of the Earth. Have done, actually.” He snuggled his wing closer over Crowley, loving the way that the white backdrop made the gorgeous serpent shades of him – black, gold and red – shine all the more jewel-like. He’d made a good decision when he’d trusted Crowley, and look how it had paid off. As his eyelids grew heavier Aziraphale thought that no matter what happened next, nobody could take _this_ away from him. This love. It would always be in his heart, and neither Heaven nor Hell could pluck it out.

“Trust me,” Crowley was whispering, his lips grazing Aziraphale’s cheekbone. “Trust yourself, too. Okay? Trust your instincts.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes with some effort. They ached. All of them. “Crowley, what are you talking about?”

Crowley sighed, then shushed him. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing, angel. Get some sleep. Rest your eyes.”

* * *

Crowley had delivered some unpalatable news in his day. It had been part of his job since the beginning: wile, tempt and then hang around recounting the deeds of the day for some stupid reason. On the whole, the worse the news, the better he’d done. Of course, there were other pieces of news that went down less well, like the sea of blank, philistine faces that had confronted him when he’d done his presentation on the M25, or when he’d been forced to admit – and he’d held off admitting this one for a while, even to himself – that he might have _slightly_, accidentally delivered the Antichrist to the wrong set of parents.

He was currently wrangling with another big one. Like how to tell the father of your unborn Whatever that your maternal instincts might have got a _little_ bit out of hand and caused you to make a thoroughly ill-advised deal with the nice people who had recently tried to set fire to him.

It wasn’t the time. It was never going to be the time, but it especially wasn’t the time now, because Aziraphale was busy with the vacuum cleaner. Cleanliness may have been next to Godliness, but in Aziraphale’s case it usually led to a lot of sweaty huffing and some very unangelic language.

“There needs to be a long, German abstract noun that precisely describes the way that vacuum cleaner leads behave when you’re tired,” he said, aiming a brown Oxford at the side of the red Henry hoover. “Wipe that smile off your face, you little shit. You’ve caused me enough annoyance for one day. There’s no need to look so bloody smug about it.”

Yeah, definitely not the time. Crowley glanced sideways at the pile of increasingly obscene needlepoint on the coffee table. After six thousand years of trying to behave himself, Aziraphale seemed to be working his way through all seven Deadly Sins. Lust, Pride, Sloth and Gluttony he had down to a fine art already. Avarice was offering a bit of a challenge, since money meant very little to him, as was Envy, since his current life – where he was free to snooze, fuck, stuff his face and indulge his intellectual arrogance to his heart’s content – left him with very little to envy in others. The one he really struggled with was Wrath. In six thousand years Crowley had never seen Aziraphale really, truly furious. Even when waving a flaming sword, he’d looked more panicked than enraged. He’d been pretty pissed off about how the world was probably going to end that time, but he had taken his frustration out on a piece of angel cake, and Crowley had discovered that angry cake eating was now a thing.

“This was you, wasn’t it?” said Aziraphale, edging past Miffed and into full blown angelic Irritation. “Came up with the idea of a smiling vacuum cleaner?”

“Not me,” said Crowley. “Although the Roomba was kind of a coup. The Sloth department celebrated that one pretty hard. Well, as hard as they go. They don’t really like to be bothered. Their idea of a party is sitting around under a duvet, eating Pot Noodle.”

“I wish I was sitting around under a duvet.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

“Because you keep _shedding_,” said Aziraphale. “And picking the skin off your feet. No, don’t look at me like that. Every time there’s a moment’s silence around here I hear the same noise – tch tch tch – your fingernail at work on the side of your toe.”

“I don’t know why you don’t just miracle it clean,” said Crowley, slightly chastened.

“I told you. Cleaning is—”

“—good for the soul. Yeah, yeah, Mr Needlepoint Sampler.” Crowley reached for the pile of rude embroidery. “While we’re on the subject, nice to see you’ve found a new hobby.”

“Oh. That.”

“It’s pretty good, actually.”

“It’s not,” said Aziraphale. “I was trying to do a sweet little nursery sampler, but then…that happened.”

Crowley paused to admire the needlework. There was a neat scrolly border with flowers, possibly daisies. In the middle was a single word. “I like it,” he said. “Where are we going to hang it? Next to the crib?”

“Really?” said Aziraphale. “You really want the first full word our child learns to read to be ‘twat’?”

“I’m strangely comfortable with that idea, yeah.”

“Yes, well. I’m definitely not hanging the one that says ‘fuck,’” said Aziraphale. “So don’t ask.”

Crowley’s phone rang. Michael. He snatched up the phone and jumped up, affecting a casual saunter to another part of the bookshop. “Yep. Hi. What’s up?”

“I have an assignment for you,” she said. “When can you be here?”

“What, now?” said Crowley. It was heading full speed towards dinner time and he’d had a ferocious craving for curry lately. He’d already made tentative plans to take the angel to Dishoom for a lamb tikka biriyani and some of those fried green chilis. “Bit of a weird time.”

“Evil never sleeps,” said Michael. Apparently even archangels were prone to going all needlepoint sampler from time to time.

Conscious of Aziraphale, Crowley slithered deeper into the depths of the Geology/Witchcraft section. “All right,” he said. “Same place as before?”

“Yes. I’ll see you at six,” she said, and hung up before Crowley had a chance to say that it was five thirty already and did she really think he was going to get from Soho to Southwark in rush hour?

“…oh, pack it _in_, you petulant fucking tossbag,” Aziraphale said, apparently still engaged in a battle of wills with the Henry hoover.

“…yep, fantastic,” Crowley said, loudly, to the empty line. “Yeah…yeah…be great to see you again. Been a while. Yeah…look forward to it.” He swallowed a nervous belch and sauntered out. “That was Sandra,” he said, in reply to Aziraphale’s questioning look.

The look got even more questioning. Downright quizzical. “Sandra?”

“Yeah. You remember Sandra, don’t you? From the fifteenth century. We used to knock about together in Rome.”

“No,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley hesitated and thought for a moment. “No, maybe you don’t,” he said. “You were busy interfering with conclaves, now I think about it. Trying to avoid the papal election of that guy with five acknowledged bastards and a soul so black that I’m surprised Anish Kapoor hasn’t tried to trademark it…” Aziraphale pursed his lips. He hadn’t succeeded. “But hey, you tried.”

“It wasn’t as though the alternatives were much better,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind _you_ what fifteenth century members of the Curia were like. Anyway, what did Sandra want?”

“She wants to meet up for drinks. Catch up. So I thought I’d…you know…” Crowley jerked a thumb towards the door.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Oh…well. Absolutely. You should go. Although don’t _actually_ drink, of course. On account of the…you know.”

“Totally,” said Crowley. “I’ll stick to soft drinks. If she asks I’ll just tell her I became a total alcoholic and now I’m doing the rehab thing.” He waited for Aziraphale to tell him that he couldn’t pull off that kind of deception. Aziraphale didn’t. “Really?” Crowley said, in the face of owlish, non-judgemental silence. “Is this your way of telling me that I come across as a complete drunk?”

Aziraphale sucked in air through his teeth. “I hate to say it, Crowley, but you have done quite a lot of…pining since you found out you were pregnant.”

“Pining?”

“You mutter wistfully about single malt in your sleep,” said Aziraphale, and held up both hands. “Not that I’m in a position to judge.”

“Yeah, I was going to say, Mr I-Came-To-Bed-Smelling-Of-Gin.”

“Oh God,” said Aziraphale. “Let’s face it – if we were human we’d both be long dead of liver failure by now, wouldn’t we?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Do you…do you worry that we’re going to be terrible parents?”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “No. Not all the time. Just…”

“…constantly?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Me, too.”

Crowley pulled him close and pressed a kiss into his curls. “We’ll work it out,” he said. “Don’t worry. We _might_ be functional alcoholics, but we can also sober up whenever we need to.” Aziraphale blinked up at him. It was the unhelpful blink. The are-you-fucking-serious blink. “Yeah, and I _know_ how bad that sounds, okay? Please stop looking at me like that.”

“You’ve done very well,” said Aziraphale. “Haven’t touched a drop. I’m proud of you, actually.”

“Aw,” said Crowley, blindsided. He could have really done without all this sudden sincerity while he was busy lying through his teeth to someone he loved. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. I am. I should probably do the same. Have a booze free night. Not even a sherry.” He smiled and smoothed down Crowley’s collar. “Of course, the baby rather puts a damper on the crack cocaine habit I was planning to cultivate in my retirement, but oh well.”

“Stop it,” said Crowley, laughing and trying not to cry. Aziraphale had always had the worst habit of being adorable at inopportune moments. “I won’t be late, okay? Keep the bed warm for me.”

“Not exactly difficult in this weather.”

“Get some sleep, love. You look exhausted.”

“I’ll try.”

Crowley kissed him goodbye, fighting the urge to say ‘I love you’, because he was sure that if he did Aziraphale would only have to look at him with those angel eyes and he’d blurt out everything. Instead he hurried out of the door and into the Bentley, to meet Michael at the previous rendezvous – the seventy-third** floor of the Shard.

He was twenty minutes late. There were still several more hours of daylight, but the shadows were beginning to lengthen and the fierce summer sunlight to take on the mellower shades of evening. Michael, on the other hand, was far from mellow. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. The tilt of her upswept eyebrows spoke volumes.

“Sorry,” said Crowley, sauntering for all he was worth in a vain attempt not to cropdust the length of the boardroom with nervous, infernal farts. “Traffic was a bastard. What’s the story, morning glory?”

“Follow me,” she said, and led the way to a featureless white door at the end of the room. “Through here.”

Crowley hesitated, since it seemed to lead into nowhere. Michael stepped through and he, holding his breath, followed. The next thing he knew the light was different, the sunlight brighter and less yellow. And the skyline had changed. Gone was St. Paul’s and the Gherkin and the Walkie-Talkie. In their places were the Empire State, the Chrysler and the One World Trade Center. “Huh,” he said, trying not to sound too impressed.

Michael turned back to him, a book in her hands. “Your first assignment,” she said, and handed him the hardback.

“_The Alpha Rules_,” read Crowley, then recognised the name printed in tall, important red letters on the glossy dust jacket. Brett Gilmore. On the back was a photo of the author, unsmiling, but with one eyebrow slightly raised in a wry, intelligent way that suggested he was probably even more insufferable than he looked. “Ah,” Crowley said. “Him.”

They got into a lift and went down. On the way Crowley flipped through the pages, taking in as much as he could. He didn’t read self-help books, and if this one was any indication he wasn’t about to start. Gilmore’s whole deal seemed to be about cultivating the façade of a successful alpha male, and to that end he had dispensed a blizzard of anodyne advice, like drinking plenty of water, sitting up straight and not fidgeting. Fidgeting, Crowley discovered, was the act of a ‘beta cuck’, whatever the hell _that_ was when it was at home.

The lift opened on a hallway full of young men. Some wore khakis and polo shirts. Others were aggressively well dressed, with French cuffs and waistcoats, a sartorial swagger that Crowley recognised from the eighties, when London had been awash with such defensive dressers, all red braces, Italian shoes and cocaine sniffles. Some of them glanced at Michael and some of them even smirked. Crowley still wasn’t sure about how he felt about her decision to bring spats back, but he had to admit that the tight, tailored lines of her pale linen suit made Gilmore’s audience look embarrassingly off-the-peg. Some of their jackets fit where they touched, whereas Michael was clearly bespoke from her piled quiff to the toes of her Chelsea boots. He was also sure that they looked askance at her because she appeared to be a woman. They couldn’t know that the female corporation was a fairly recent innovation, and that they were looking at the archangel who had personally chucked Satan into the pit.

She led the way into a lecture theatre. Michael and Crowley sat at the back and watched as the men took their seats, Crowley with one eye on the book. “So who is this guy, exactly?” he said.

“Philosopher,” said Michael.

“Philosopher?” Crowley closed the book. “What? Drink water, sit up straight, don’t fidget, and always wear a tie? _That’s_ philosophy? Sounds like ordinary everyday nagging to me.”

“He’s what passes for a philosopher in this day and age.”

“Yeah, I was going to say. If Socrates had ever gone head to head with this smug, wet fart, old Soccy would have been picking bits of him out of his teeth for months afterwards.”

“Soccy?” said Michael, with a sidelong glance. She narrowed her lips. “Knew him personally, did you? Well, I suppose it makes sense that you’d hang around with people like that.”

“People who ask awkward questions, you mean?” said Crowley.

“Questions have consequences.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been through countless shampoos and I still can’t quite get the smell of boiling sulphur out of my hair. You don’t have to lecture me about consequences.”

Michael gave him a strange look and reached out. She touched the ends of his hair where it had fallen over his shoulder. He’d grown it out because Aziraphale liked it, and because he liked sitting in a hot bath, bracketed by the angel’s broad, wet thighs, Aziraphale’s fingers combing conditioner through the long strands. _Look at you, spoiled thing. I didn’t even think snakes could purr._

“Your hair used to be lighter,” Michael said. “I expect the hellfire burned the gold out of it.” Gilmore had come on stage and the crowd were applauding, but Crowley wasn’t paying attention to anything but the archangel. She had a pointed, triumphant look in her eye, a faint echo of the flaming sword look she’d worn when she’d looked over the crowd of assembled angels and announced that Satan had Fallen and that all his friends were about to do likewise. And Crowley, still wearing his white wings and with stardust under his fingernails, had murmured a low _ohh shit_ under his breath. She’d looked right at him in that moment, just the way she was looking at him now. The applause had died down and the human on stage was talking – a thin, quacking voice that sounded about as alpha male as a slide whistle and explained his entire career – and nobody knew a thing about the grim celestial history between those two beings lurking at the back.

She plucked the sunglasses from his nose and looked into his eyes, which he felt sure were as snakey as they ever got, when stress swallowed the irises completely and the pupils narrowed almost to nothing. His guts were writhing, as though Michael had reset the clock on morning sickness when she’d led him through the door and across an Atlantic’s worth of international time zones. She was looking _into_ him, and he pictured thousands of unseen eyes blinking open, not only in the dark of the theatre but within the folds of his brain and the blood-hot, lightless chambers of his heart. She peered deeper, into those private places where he kept only the most sacred of things – a picture of a laughing Aziraphale, flushed pink beneath his tickling fingers – and his darkest fears. Aziraphale, sitting baffled and broken on the floor among his own fallen white feathers, his hair scorched and his wonderful, changeable eyes turned to a definite, demonic red.

And the baby. Oh shit, if she saw the baby…

“_No,_” said Crowley, drawing back in his seat. “I don’t care what I signed. You don’t get to do that to me anymore.”

Michael just smiled thinly and handed him back his glasses. “Your eyes used to be brown,” she said, with a casualness that made him hate her all the more. “Do you remember? You were funny, too. Always a smart remark. That’s probably why he picked you out for his little clique. He always did like the funny ones, the cool ones, the pretty ones. Of course, _he_ was beautiful, wasn’t he? The Morningstar.” She paused, for effect. All that corporate drivel was just that: Heaven’s general knew how to communicate. “How is he looking these days?”

“Oh, you know,” said Crowley, his fear and rage reminding him of who he was. The enemy. He would always be the enemy to her, outsourcing be damned. And he was fine with that. “He’s not without a certain charm. I think he works out, actually.” 

Someone shushed them and met with a look that would have made Satan nervous. Michael turned her attention back to the stage and Crowley did likewise, because no matter what an arsewart of a man Gilmore seemed to be, he was still infinitely preferable to having an archangel trying to vivisect your living soul.

Gilmore was extolling the importance of red meat in a man’s diet, lest one turn into a ‘soyboy’, whatever one of those was. For the past two years, he said, he had consumed nothing but flesh, as nature intended. Crowley wasn’t an expert on the human digestive system (he was still getting to significant grips with his own) but he had been around for those stretches of history where the wealthy had dined almost exclusively on meat and booze. And had gout. Lots of gout. Not to mention the kidney and bladder stones. They’d never heard the last of that from Samuel Pepys, back in the day, after Pepys had had a bladder stone yanked out of a crude hole in his taint by an old fashioned barber surgeon. Every year he had celebrated the anniversary of this monstrous birth by throwing a ‘Stone Feast’, a dinner so rich in gizzards, guts, livers, kidneys and other assorted offal that it had given even Aziraphale a bad case of the meat sweats and a suspiciously sore big toe joint.

“And now we come to the other obstacle to the Alpha Male,” said Gilmore, having worked his way down a list that included #MeToo, soy lattes and ‘snowflakes’. The backdrop changed from bullet points to Michelangelo’s _Creation of Man_.

“God,” said Gilmore. “Michelangelo knew what was up. Look at the shape of the cloud behind God. It’s a brain, gentlemen. A human brain. The message is clear – Michelangelo, that master of his art, that towering genius of the Italian Renaissance – knew that God was just a concept.”

“He really didn’t,” said Crowley, who had met Michelangelo on more than one occasion and remembered him as a deeply religious man, so consumed by his unsatisfied desire for large, burly men that his even his female nudes came out looking a bit Tom of Finland.

“It’s our faith in God that holds us back. That’s why we must discard it, destroy it. Our faith from now on must be in ourselves, as Michelangelo’s was. Faith in his own genius. Faith that God is nothing more than an illusion designed to keep us in check.”

“Is it Nietzsche in here?” said Crowley. “Or is it just me?”

“I never said he was original,” said Michael. “Any ideas?”

“Any ideas for what?”

“Him. How are we going to deal with him?”

“What? You want me to curse him?”

“Yes. I told you. A robust non-interventionist—”

“—hands-on approach to outsourcing,” said Crowley, drawing a hiss of shushes from the audience. Michael snapped her fingers and they fell silent. And motionless. On the stage, Gilmore stood frozen, mid gesture, with a clenched fist and open mouth.

“I remember,” said Crowley, and Michael had that pointed look in her eyes again. “I remember lots of things, actually.”

“So do I,” she said, and inclined her head towards the stage. “Now curse him.”

Crowley could have done it. He should have done it, as he later reflected, at great and very painful length, but being told what to do by an archangel turned out to be a bit of a hot button, even after all these thousands of years. “No,” he said. “Curse him yourself, if you want it that much.”

“I can’t curse him,” said Michael. “I’m an angel.”

“Shut up. Angels can curse, and I don’t just mean the noises _my_ angel makes when he has to deal with the vacuum cleaner. I was _there_, Michael. Egypt? Sodom and Gomorrah? I’ve seen what angels can do. That’s to say nothing of what you did to _me_.”

Michael shimmered dangerously around the edges of her corporation. “I was only—”

“—obeying orders?” said Crowley, parts of the inside of his head now screaming at other parts of the inside of his head. He would never cease to be appalled by his own capacity for making a bad situation worse, and yet – as a demon – he had no brakes to pump at this point. _Worse_ was what he did, after all.

“Don’t you dare start that again,” Michael said. “Angels obey. Now do as you’re told.”

Crowley shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Demon. We don’t.”

_Just once,_ said the voice in his head. _Just once do you think you could make things worse without making them worse for _yourself_, you fucking idiot?_

But he wasn’t listening. He was tired and bloated and his ankles were probably about to swell up. He’d have jetlag when he got back to London and he was already far too pregnant to be dealing with that nonsense on top of everything else his wayward body was currently up to. “You really dragged me all the way to New York to deal with this?” he said, waving a hand at the frozen stage. “This tiresome stale fart of a man?”

“He’s an extremely influential atheist philosopher,” said Michael. “He’s been at the top of the New York—”

“—Times bestseller list. Yeah, yeah. I do run a bookshop, you know. I am aware of these things. But seriously? Him? Ayn Rand with a penis? The original Ayn Rand was bad enough, but I didn’t see you sneaking around the hallways in Hell, looking for a demon to do your dirty work that time.”

“We didn’t have to,” said Michael. “Her nicotine habit took care of the problem.”

“There you go, then,” said Crowley. “Probably the same deal with Brett here, only instead of tobacco it’ll be red meat. His diet will finish him off faster than you can say kidney stones. He may look skinny, but I expect he’s got a small patisserie’s worth of cholesterol oozing around in his veins. Quick myocardial infarction and it’s goodnight Vienna and they’ll be measuring him up for a spit in Hell. Oh, and obviously it’ll be pretty funny when he realises that not only does God exist, but that God’s pronouns are She/Her. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“He insulted the Lord.”

“So?” said Crowley. “And you want me to punish him for that? Why? Just look at the man. He’s so above it all you’d think he didn’t even have an anus. He’s never laughed a laugh that wasn’t a smug chuckle at his own inherent superiority. He’s incapable of laughing at himself, the poor miserable prick. No wonder he doesn’t seem to get along with women: can you imagine trying to fuck a creature like that? No warmth, no sense of humour, just an intolerable sense of the weight of his own measly penis? That man has never accidentally cracked off a really loud fart in the middle of making love and then realised he was lying in the arms of someone who loved him enough to find it hilarious. And that’s heartbreaking. That’s an absolute tragedy. I could unleash all ten plagues of Egypt on that guy. Go full Job with boils and leprosy and constantly bleeding haemorrhoids, but at the end of the day, I couldn’t do anything worse to him than what he’s already done to himself. He’s Brett Gilmore, and that’s _horrible_.”

Michael pinched the bridge of her nose. “You signed a contract, Crowley.”

“Yes,” said Crowley, getting to his feet. “I did, but you’re taking the piss, quite frankly. Of all the humans in the world – the priests who touch little kids, the cardinals who cover it up, the immigration agents who are putting actual babies in actual cages – of all the rotten, stinking souls who genuinely have it coming, and this is the one you single out for Heaven’s wrath? Some unoriginal dimbulb who said bad things about your boss? Fuck off, Michael. This is beneath you. It’s beneath me, and I’m a fucking demon, for God’s sake. This has always been the problem with you lot. Right from the start. No sense of priorities. You always come down like a ton of bricks on the wrong thing…”

“What, like you?” said Michael, standing up now. “Were you the wrong thing?”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I was. I was just…”

“…asking questions?” she said. “Yes. And that’s always been the problem with you. Always knew better than God, didn’t you? You and all the other celestial smartarses who thought they were too cool for school. Built a nebula or two and thought you knew it all, didn’t you? But you didn’t, you smug little shit. When I put my foot up your arse and kicked you out of Heaven you went down just like the rest of them – headlong, screaming, begging for mercy. I cast you down, Crowley. I did it once and don’t think I won’t do it again. _Now do as you’re damn well told_.”

The screaming inside his head was wordless now, and the picture of Aziraphale sitting forlorn and red-eyed was all the more vivid, but Crowley couldn’t seem to stop himself. Too many old grudges, too much history, and he was too much demon to do anything but disobey. “No,” he said.

Michael sighed and shook her head. “Then you can kiss goodbye to your benefits package,” she said. “And kiss goodbye to your pet angel. He might be a bit different after he’s taken the plunge, don’t you think? A bit less fucking lippy when it comes to rubber ducks and bath towels.”

“Don’t you touch him,” said Crowley, suddenly realising the sheer depth of the shit he’d talked himself into here. “Don’t you dare.”

Michael glanced at her phone. “It’s out of my hands, I’m afraid,” she said, restarting time and heading for the exit. “Gabriel’s probably already on his way, anyway, after that unauthorised resurrection in Bognor.” She started walking. “Do you need a lift to the airport?”

“Wait,” said Crowley. “You can’t just leave me in New York.” There was no way he was going to risk teleporting home in his condition. It was bad enough that Michael had teleported him here in the first place. And frozen time. “At least get me back to London. At least let me see him one last time before…”

_Before he Falls._

“Please,” said Crowley. His knees went soft and he was sure he was about to throw up. 

Michael turned on her heel. “Transportation was part of the perks,” she said. “Should have thought of that before you torched the contract, genius.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * For Aziraphale those places were Hell, for obvious reasons, and Bognor. Also for obvious reasons.  
** Level seventy-two is the highest habitable floor of the Shard. Nobody had told Michael this, and even if they had she probably would have just shrugged and pressed a lift button that had suddenly begun to exist.


	6. My Milk Snake Brings All The Boys To The Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes all Old Testament, with the help of an inexpensive vacuum cleaner and a small Greek restaurant. Crowley makes a surprising discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's early, but I felt terrible about that cliffhanger. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading. x

Back in London, Aziraphale found himself at a loose end.

As soon as it occurred to him that he was at one, he realised he couldn’t remember the last time. He’d barely had time to get used to the notion of boredom at all, and then Crowley had got pregnant, which had made their lives very busy again, what with vomiting and baby books and worrying not only what Heaven and Hell was going to do to them, but the more pressing and immediate problem of what kinds of wild, strange mood swings Crowley’s rampaging hormones were going to subject them to today. And this, as Crowley was so fond of pointing out, was the relatively easy part. The really hard part was when you had a tiny, helpless being completely dependent on you for absolutely everything, and there would be no time for spa days, alcoholic lunches or long, lazy baths, listening to _Turandot_ and rather overdoing it on the old Barolo.

“Hmm,” he said, to the pleasingly empty bookshop. “Just me, then. Me, myself and I.”

He thought he should do something nice, and then immediately felt guilty that he was enjoying the prospect of being alone. But no, he told himself, firmly. Enjoying a moment’s solitude didn’t mean he loved Crowley any less. If anything, he should be taking pleasure in his own company and savouring the experience, because he’d have precious little of it once the baby came. Me time, as Madame Tracy called it, when she chivvied Shadwell into walking the dog and locked herself in the bathroom with a great many scented candles and her latest haul of Lush products. Conscious that he should probably keep an eye on the booze consumption, Aziraphale decided that a bubble bath in the familiar but always delightful company of PG Wodehouse would be just the ticket, and he was trying to decide between Wooster or Blandings when the phone rang.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But we are quite extraordinarily closed right now.”

“It’s me,” said Crowley, and there was something in his tone that turned Aziraphale’s guts to ice.

“What’s wrong?”

“Right,” said Crowley. “I don’t want you to panic…”

“…please don’t say that. You know it never helps,” said Aziraphale, promptly beginning to panic. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Not…as such. No. How do you feel about moving to Alpha Centauri?”

“Alpha Centauri? Why? What’s happened?”

“Long story,” said Crowley. “The short version is that I’ve done something very, very stupid that might have _slightly_ annoyed Heaven.”

Aziraphale exhaled. He was guessing that this time there wasn’t an apple involved. “I thought you were going out for drinks with Sandra?” he said. “Is there even a Sandra?” There was a hush on the end of the line. He heard a loud human voice, distorted by some sort of tannoy system, in the background. “So you lied to me?”

“Secondhand book fair in Sussex?” said Crowley.

“Really? You’re really going to beat me with that particular stick, when you’ve just told me that you’ve incurred the wrath of Heaven? What did you _do_, Crowley?”

Crowley hesitated. Aziraphale heard the strange, metallic voice in the background again, rising over a hubbub of humanity. Where on earth was he? “I…” Crowley began, and stopped again to sigh. “I sort of got into a bit of a…a freelance situation with Michael.”

“Michael? As in the archangel? Crowley, what in the name of God did you do?”

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley. “I’m so sorry. Listen, I have to go, because my flight’s about to start boarding—”

“—flight? Where the hell are you?”

“New York. Don’t really want to try teleporting myself back to London while I have a baby on board, so—”

“—yes, quite, but _what are you doing in New York?_” None of this made any sense at all.

“Angel, I have to go,” said Crowley. “I don’t want you to panic, but Gabriel is probably on his way to you right now, so lock the doors, don’t answer the phone and…I don’t know. Pray or something. I’m sorry. I love you.”

“I love you, too, but wait…”

Too late. There was a click and the dial tone. Aziraphale stared open mouthed at the receiver for a moment. Freelance situation with Michael? Had Crowley taken her up on her offer? He hadn’t said a thing about it to Aziraphale, and no wonder, because Aziraphale would have told him he needed his head examined. What the hell had possessed him to do such a thing?

Aziraphale’s head already ached, even more eyes blinking open, more angles, more possibilities. He saw Crowley huddled in a cage of light and ice, arms folded tight over his stomach, Crowley hissing, snarling, coiled over his clutch. His eyes burned and his skin felt far too tight, the edges of reality shimmering dangerously as all his nature heaved and creaked against it. He saw why Crowley might have done it, but that didn’t help, because Crowley was on the other side of an ocean and he could see too many other things. No more visions of adorable babies with Crowley’s red hair and Aziraphale’s white wings. This time he saw the bookshop floor all aslither with thousands of snakes, under siege by angels. And Crowley was a hollowed out shell of himself, concave stomach, cheekbones like knives, and still the snakes kept coming, even though they had been pouring out of him for weeks now and surely there couldn’t be any more in there? He saw the Crowley’s plane plunging into the ocean, saw Gabriel marching into the bookshop with a torch of hellfire, flanked by Sandalphon, who wore the same dreadful, pyromaniac grin he’d worn in Sodom. He saw everything and too much, and it was only because of what Crowley had said to him – before he kissed him and walked out of the door, and not for the last time, no, never, not if Aziraphale had anything to do with it – that kept him in human shape. “Keep the bed warm for me,” Crowley had said, and Aziraphale’s nature answered: the Guardian of the Eastern Gate was back in business, and he would keep the home fires burning no matter what.

“Buggered if I’m moving to Alpha Centauri,” said Aziraphale, hurrying to lock the back door. Who knew what the schools were like up there? He had no intention of homeschooling, especially if it was an only child. It was important for children to socialise. Just look how the Son of Satan had turned out. He’d have been far worse if he hadn’t had such a good set of close friends to play with.

As he drew the bolts across he wondered what on earth he was doing. Locks and bolts meant nothing to angels. The answer was supposed to be in one of his books, but the stupid things just sat there in mute piles and told him nothing. The sun slipped behind a cloud and the dustmotes dancing in the bookshop winked out as though someone had flicked a switch and extinguished their light. In spite of the heavy summer heat, Aziraphale shivered, his temples pounding. The sounds of Soho seemed to fade and that was when he heard it, a feathered _hsssh_ of angel wings.

He spun round on his heel, his vision threatening to go fractal again as he tried to see where the sound came from, but all he saw were familiar angels – the fat little _putti_ on top of the display stands, and poor Crowley’s statue, locked forever in their _are-they, aren’t-they_ clinch. The whisper of wings came again, chilling him down to the bone and tossing him back through time to the old days. Very old days, before Crowley had learned to hide his eyes, because they’d been crocodile yellow, lined with black, godlike against the backdrop of a Nile whose waters were still stinking and flyblown. And he’d been at it again, prodding, poking, making Aziraphale question all the wrong things, because that was what he did. Making trouble. He’d admitted as much in the first place, Aziraphale had said. “You always do this,” he’d said. “Asking questions. Making _me_ ask questions. And it’s not very nice.”

“I’m not nice,” Crowley had said, carefully sidestepping yet another pile of dead frogs. “I’m a demon. I don’t do nice. Anyway, I’m not the one going after kids. Again.” 

“Well, I’m not either.” At least Aziraphale hadn’t had to do _that_ part. That had been the job of the That Angel, the one whose wings made a _hsssh_ noise that put you in mind of the whispered shriek of a metal when a sword was drawn from its scabbard. “Look, I didn’t make the rules, and it’s not as if he hasn’t been told. He’s had nine chances to let them go, and it’s not my fault he’s being so pigheaded. If the blood and the frogs and the flies and the darkness weren’t incentive enough…”

Aziraphale stared at the books again, astonished at his own stupidity. Books and books and books. He’d thought the answer was in them, but hadn’t once thought to look in _The_ Book, the one whose very name meant book. The one he was actually _in_.

He hurried across the street to the small Greek restaurant opposite. The owner, Dimitri, was on the phone, writing something in the reservations book, and he smiled when he saw Aziraphale. “_Kyrios Fell! Kalispera – ti kanis?_”

“Oh, you know,” said Aziraphale, switching to Greek. “You know…busy.”

“Your usual table?”

“No. Bit of an unusual request, actually. I don’t suppose you have any lamb’s blood in the kitchen. Run off from a joint or something? It’s…it’s for a recipe.”

Dimitri raised a salt and pepper eyebrow. “Your husband getting ambitious in the kitchen, huh?”

“Yes. Very,” said Aziraphale. He could hear wings beating softly somewhere outside. “Although we’re not married. Haven’t got around to that yet.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Dimitri. “It’s a headache. You know my daughter, Sophie? It’s nothing but invitations, table settings, and money, money, money. _Then_ there’s all the relatives you have to keep happy, and half of them hate each other.”

“Yes. Absolutely,” said Aziraphale, trying not to look as impatient as he felt. “It _does_ sound like an awful headache.”

Dimitri seemed to sense his desperation and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Aziraphale, who already had an awful headache, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but it didn’t do any good. Too many visions, and wings flickering at the edge of every single one. The beat of wings was a throb now, a heavy pulse thrumming against the hot, summer city air. He tried to breathe deeply, because he’d read somewhere that it helped, and rolled the scents of ozone, roast lamb and hot sugar over his tongue. His own wings screamed to be free and he inwardly screamed right back at them. _Just a minute. Keep it together just a moment longer, will you?_

Dimitri came out with a plastic container in a double wrapped bag. “There we are. Are you sure you know what you’re doing with this?”

“Definitely. Thank you so much.”

“You want to take some baklava to go?”

The smell of sugar and pistachio still lingered on Aziraphale’s tongue, and his stomach stirred like a sleeping beast. This time he couldn’t bring himself to feel even slightly guilty about it. If he was about to meet a fiery end at the hands of a pack of rampaging archangels, then damn right he was going to eat as many sweets as he wanted. “You know, I think I will. Thank you. Oh, and some of the halva, if you have it?”

He rummaged in his wallet, grateful for the very human experience of notes and coins, distracting him from the huge, bright, sprawling thing that he really was, currently burning and stretching under the skin of this small, soft body. The mere sight of the real Aziraphale would drive humans insane and burn their eyes from their sockets, which was why he tried to avoid doing that kind of thing, and especially in a very nice Greek restaurant where they served the best _dolmades_ he’d had since the Fall of Troy. “How are your feet, by the way?” he said, scrambling for small-talk in an attempt to stay in his usual shape. Nothing more human than moaning and commiserating over the thousand natural shocks that flesh was heir to, and Dimitri had had a few. He’d got his diabetes under control, but Aziraphale seemed to remember him saying that several toes hadn’t survived the battle and would probably have to come off. “You were having some bother with your toes…?”

“Ah. That,” said Dimitri, handing over a box of sweets. “Strange business.”

“Really?”

Once again Dimitri seemed to see the urgency in Aziraphale’s demeanour. He smiled. “Long story,” he said. “Maybe not the time to tell it right now.”

“No. Perhaps not,” said Aziraphale. “Thanks again.”

When he opened the door the thrum of wings was almost deafening. Nobody else could hear it, and went about their business as harmlessly as before. But for the window dressings of time and technology, it could have just as easily been a street scene from Sodom or Gomorrah. People walking to appointments, picking out places to have dinner, kissing and laughing and frowning and talking, none of them _that_ evil, not really. Just as good or bad as they happened to be, like everyone. The sky was clouding over, dark clouds, heavy with overdue rain. The sky had darkened then, too, before the rage of angels descended and everything was blood and salt and brimstone. Aziraphale caught sight of his reflection in the shop window. There was gold on his cheek and he could see the reflection of his wings, blinking on and off like the neon of the old red light district.

He rushed into the back room and grabbed an old paintbrush, the bristles stiff with neglect, but it would do. He ran back to the door, tore through layers of plastic and popped open the container of blood. It wasn’t the blood of a perfect spring lamb that had been sacrificed for this exact purpose, but it was currently the best idea he had. He dipped the brush, releasing the smell of ancient paint thinner, and painted a long, gory stroke up the column of the doorway. The wings beat louder, filling his head and making his heart feel as though it was about to burst, but somehow he managed to resist their siren song long enough to turn and paint the other column with the lamb’s blood.

Silence.

The wing beats hushed so suddenly that the first thing that popped into his head was the Blitz. The old doodlebugs, the V2s. You’d hear them going overhead, but when the noise cut out – that was when it was time to start praying, because when that thing fell silent it meant that it was on its way _down_.

Aziraphale waited.

Nothing. Nothing but the lazy rush of a London street at the hour when the shops had finished closing and all the restaurants were opening up for the night. His vision settled, the throb in his head slowing. _And the blood shall be to you for a token upon the houses where ye are, and when I see the blood I will pass over you, and the plague shall not be upon you to destroy you, when I smite the land of Egypt._

“By the book,” he muttered. And Gabriel had always said he wasn’t capable of doing anything by the book. Well, who was laughing now?

Aziraphale closed the door and exhaled slowly, his back pressed against it. His wings had stopped trying to unfurl, but he was still scared to death. Crowley was still out there, probably somewhere over the Atlantic by now, alone and afraid and wishing he could be drunk. “Just get back here,” said Aziraphale. “Please. Let him get back here in one piece, Lord. I know you’re probably not listening to the likes of me, and I can’t exactly blame you for that. Heaven knows I haven’t been an exemplary angel. Actually, I haven’t even been a mediocre angel and it’s a mystery to me why you haven’t decided to clip my wings permanently, but I’m in a spot of bother and I have no idea what to do about it. This is…this is just a temporary fix and I don’t know if I have any more ideas in me. _He’s_ always been the one with the ideas, you see. I’m just the idiot who stands there at the end of the world – with a flaming sword in his hand, no less – and demands that someone else does something about it. He’s better than me, he’s brighter than me, and he’s all that I am and all that I’ll ever be, and please, Lord. Please protect him. Just keep him safe on his way home, or I’ll…I’ll never talk to you again.”

* * *

Aziraphale was walking naked through the Garden of Eden.

It was new. Everything was new. Pristine. The air was pure, the sun warm on his skin. When he parted his lips to fill his lungs he tasted the first ever dew, a newness as irresistibly inviting as the glassy expanse of an unrippled swimming pool, or a crème brulee with the sugar uncracked. The damp grass was cool beneath his feet, and a gentle breeze ruffled the feathers of his wings. Somewhere music was playing, and that was strange, because he didn’t remember music from the last time he was here, especially not this, with a syncopated beat and a melody that made distant rusty bells clank in the back of his head.

Fat bees, as yet unnamed, bumbled through the clover like happy drunks. A hummingbird, bright as a jewel, fluttered past his face and hung in the air to sip the nectar from the pink trumpet throat of a flower. He walked dazed with beauty, leaves brushing against the sides of his bare thighs, his face upturned to receive the dappled green light from above.

He stepped into a clearing and gasped – “Good Lord!” – because the Lord was standing there.

More accurately, She was dancing there. And the music suddenly made sense – Chubby Checker – because she was doing the Twist. She wore a plain, homespun robe. Aziraphale, who had covered himself as best he could with the large leaf of a _monstera deliciosa_, felt his cheeks blaze crimson.

“Aziraphale the Unfallen,” She said. “Who told you that you were naked?”

“Oh no,” said Aziraphale. “I’m having an anxiety dream, aren’t I?”

God smiled and held out Her hand. There was a red, black and white snake wound around the top of Her arm and the back of Her neck. “It’s okay,” She said. “Don’t mind him. He’s harmless. He’s a milk snake. He brings _all_ the boys to the yard.”

Aziraphale took Her arm and walked with Her through the garden.

“People call them milk snakes because they believed they used to sink their teeth into cows’ udders and steal the milk,” She said. “It’s a strange misconception, but there’s no basis to the myth. In fact most snakes are lactose intolerant.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Aziraphale. “But just so we’re clear, I _am_ dreaming right now, aren’t I?”

“Dreams are strange things,” said God. “Sometimes they show you things you can’t see when you’re awake.”

“I see too many things as it is,” said Aziraphale. “Infinite fractal possibilities. It’s making my head spin. I’m far too old and foolish for this kind of thing, Lord. It feels as if I can no longer bear the full weight of my own nature, and it’s my own fault because I took too much pleasure in my human disguise. I ate and slept and made love and now I…” He blinked back tears of frustration. “I’ve failed you. Again. I’ve forgotten how to be an angel.”

The Lord led him to the side of a clear bubbling stream. She sat down on a sunwarmed rock and motioned to him to join her. “I never sent you into a dream, did I?” She said.

“Lord?”

“Sometimes I made angels visit humans in dreams. Joseph. Remember?”

“Which one?”

“The carpenter,” She said, and – frowning – shook her head slowly. “Someone had to protect her, you see. She was so young. So vulnerable. Carrying a child out of wedlock.”

Aziraphale nodded. “She would have been stoned to death.”

“Yes. The humans had their rules, so I had to find a way to work with them. Protect her using the same rules they had set in place. That was why I sent the angel into Joseph’s dreams.” Her eyes searched his face. Past his face, deep inside his brain. Old eyes. The oldest. They had seen everything. “That wasn’t you, was it?”

“No, Lord. You…you didn’t really rely on me for much, to tell you the truth. Which was fair. After the whole flaming sword incident and all that.”

“You lied to me, Aziraphale,” She said, and it wasn’t so much an accusation as a statement of fact.

“I know, Lord. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that I disobeyed.”

She frowned again. “When did you disobey?”

“Armageddon. They handed me a uniform and told me to to fight. I refused.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” She said. “_I_ didn’t tell you to fight. Angels are bound to obey the word of God, not the word of other angels.”

“Well, that’s perfectly true,” said Aziraphale. “But when I tried to speak to you I got the answering service.”

God tickled the snake under the chin and sucked Her lip in thought for a long moment. “Yes, I really must get around to updating my voicemail,” She said. She got up from the rock and held out a hand to him. “Shall we dance?” She said, but Her voice was mingling with another’s – Crowley’s – calling his name, and there was the sound of thunder rolling in the background. The dream faded around the edges and he was suddenly conscious of the crick that the couch had put in his neck.

He opened his eyes. Crowley was standing over him, looking pale and panicked.

“Crowley! Where have you _been_?” Aziraphale jumped up from the couch and flung both arms around Crowley. “Oh, thank God. Are you all right? You’re wet.”

“It’s raining,” said Crowley, which was something of an understatement. It was chucking it down in sheets, bouncing off the roof lantern like hail. Thunder rumbled above the city, and Aziraphale realised that the columns outside the bookshop would now be washed clean.

Someone hammered on the door of the bookshop.

“Oh shit,” said Aziraphale, and then the door opened anyway. Angels didn’t need to bother with locks, but in the case of this particular angel he could never resist a little bit of unnecessary intimidation.

It was Gabriel, immaculate – and miraculously dry – in a lightweight summer suit of a delicate dove grey. Aziraphale smoothed down his hair, for an instant conscious of his sleep rumpled clothes and what may very well have been drool on his collar. But then a strange thing happened. As soon as he caught himself at it, all his self-consciousness burned away, faster than a fuse, leaving nothing behind but a clear and perfect _anger_. Why should he feel intimidated by a well dressed messenger boy? Any idiot could make Italian tailoring look good, after all. Gabriel wasn’t better than him, and he certainly wasn’t brighter: he thought _Sandalphon_ was clever, for Heaven’s sake.

Gabriel sniffed, but he didn’t have to look far to determine the source of the smell. Crowley was right there, Aziraphale’s arm still around his waist.

“Wow,” Gabriel said. “So the rumours are true. You really _will_ eat anything.”

Crowley peered over his glasses. Aziraphale discreetly shunted him backwards, and for once Crowley obeyed.

“That was an oral sex joke, by the way,” said Gabriel.

“I’m aware,” said Aziraphale, in his flintiest manner. “Had you been working on that for a while?”

“Yes!” said Gabriel, with every appearance of delight.

“It shows.”

“What’s it like to have your sense of humour, Gabriel?” said Crowley. “I’m genuinely curious.”

Gabriel ignored him. “So, listen,” he said. “We’ve had some reports of a _highly_ unauthorised resurrection…” He took a step closer and Aziraphale instinctively reached out. Unfortunately, the instincts Aziraphale was now answering hadn’t been taking his calls for about six thousand years, and while the angelic part of him still knew that this was time to reach for a weapon, it also still thought there was a flaming sword within reach.

And there wasn’t. There was only the hose of the nearby vacuum cleaner.

“_Don’t_,” said Aziraphale, with the brush attachment of the Henry hoover pointed directly at (ohfuck) the Archangel Gabriel’s face. The air shivered around him and his wings burned.

Gabriel blinked slowly. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” said Aziraphale. His sight – those hundreds of migraine inducing fractal angles – merged into one and focused, laser sharp and painful, upon the being that was threatening _his_.

“I’m not sure,” said Gabriel, frowning into the brush attachment. “What’s that?”

“This is a terrifying human weapon.”

Gabriel glanced at the fat, red body of the vacuum cleaner. “It’s _smiling_.”

“That’s what makes it so dangerous,” said Aziraphale. “Lulls you into a false sense of security.” Gabriel stirred. “_No._ Don’t you dare. Don’t you take another step further, do you hear me?”

“Why?” said Gabriel. “What are you going to do about it?”

In truth, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. He’d never really had a reason to exercise this aspect of his power before, instead preferring to float around quietly, inspiring art and literature. Only now the air was thrumming with the beating of invisible wings, and his eyes burned, his whole being focused on Crowley and the unfinished little creature curled inside of him.

“Try me,” Aziraphale said. “I might not be an archangel, but I’m sure I don’t need to explain to someone of your rank what it is that a principality actually _does_. If you threaten, I _will_ protect. So go on. Just fucking try me, Gabriel.”

Gabriel gave him an incredulous look. “Did you just…?”

“Swear?” said Aziraphale, the volume of his voice steadily rising. “Oh yes. I do that now, because I have a great many feelings, you see.” His wings flapped loose. He couldn’t hold them any more. “Feelings that haven’t been allowed the luxury of relief for the past six thousand motherfucking years.”

Crowley made a small noise, somewhere between delight and terror. Gabriel was as motionless as someone who had fallen prey to the attentions of a really skilled drive-by taxidermist.

“Oh yes,” said Aziraphale. “It’s all gone a little bit HBO in the language department since the last time you deigned to flutter a wing around here, fucko. The only reason I haven’t called you a cunt is because you lack the required warmth and depth.” He jabbed the vacuum cleaner brush under Gabriel’s nose, effectively reanimating the startled archangel. “Now what’s it to be, Gabriel? Are you going to shit or get off the pot? No, wait, I’m terribly sorry. I’ll rephrase that, since I know you don’t do well with idioms on account of you being denser than a dying fucking sun. What I mean to say is are you going to clip my wings here and now and send me plunging downwards like a shot duck, or are you going to get the actual fucking _fuck_ out of my bookshop?”

“I…” said Gabriel. “Am going to leave.”

“Do so,” said Aziraphale. “I think that might be the most sensible executive decision you’ve ever taken.”

He stood there, clutching the vacuum cleaner in a reflex grip as he watched the holy menace retreat. His flesh felt too tight and his eyeballs felt like they were about to boil inside their sockets. Crowley approached, wide-eyed and quivering with barely subdued excitement.

“That,” he said. “Was. _Spectacular_.”

Aziraphale turned his head from the door. He was shaking. Crowley gently pried his fingers loose from the vacuum cleaner. His fingers had left dents in the metal. His wings drooped behind him as the full weight of what he’d just done began to settle upon him.

Slowly, he peeled his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth and realised that he would very much like to be drunk right now.

“Are you all right?” said Crowley. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“Fine. I’m fine. Although I could use a _very _stiff drink or five.”

“On it,” said Crowley, and rushed for the drinks cabinet. He came back with a bottle of Glenmorangie and a glass. Aziraphale swallowed the first double in one belt and held out his glass for more. Crowley filled it.

“What did you mean?” he asked. “When you were talking about what a principality does?”

Aziraphale folded his wings and exhaled. “I’m not just an off-brand muse,” he said. “I am an angel of Inspiration, yes, but I’m also an angel of Protection. Which is why I’ve been so…”

“…protective,” said Crowley, with that burning building look in his eyes again.

Aziraphale set down his glass and touched the tiny swell of Crowley’s stomach. “Very protective,” he said, before Crowley swooped in and kissed him passionately. His system was still singing with adrenaline and he was about to suggest they took this to the couch when he remembered that he was still waiting on an explanation from Crowley. And that they probably did need to move to Alpha Centauri. Not only that, Crowley was now kissing him with a slow deliberation that seemed incongruous under the circumstances. Surely this was a time for recklessly tearing each other’s clothes off and fucking like they were about to die, but Crowley was _lingering_ over him. Tasting him.

“Crowley…”

“Mm?”

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“You know what,” said Aziraphale. “Stop trying to lick the taste of whiskey off my gums.”

Crowley groaned. “I can’t help it. You taste amazing.” He sighed. “This is so unfair. This is exactly the kind of situation where I should be abusing alcohol, and I can’t.” His fingers sought the lowermost buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and started rummaging with intent. “Do you want to fuck my brains out over the back of the couch instead?”

“I would love to,” said Aziraphale, struggling to resist the urge to channel his panic into one of the most ancient instincts of all. “But right now I’m slightly more concerned with why you think we need to move to Alpha Centauri. You took Michael up on her job offer, didn’t you?”

Crowley flopped onto the couch. “Yes,” he said, clearly too exhausted to obfuscate. He looked terribly tired.

“Right. And would you like to explain _why_ you did that?”

“Because I’m a cretin,” said Crowley. “And apparently twice as cretinous when knocked up. She kept talking about the benefits package—”

“—benefits package? What kind of—”

“—_if_ you would just let me finish, angel. Please? Believe me, I do not want to be explaining this to you, but it would be a lot easier if you didn’t interrupt.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, and reached for the booze again. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

“She offered me corporeal protection,” said Crowley. “She poured holy water all over me and I got…wet. Just wet. Didn’t even smoulder. And you _know_ the kind of dreams I was having, about blueberry muffins and Beelzebub and things going all…sticky toffee pudding.”

Aziraphale got up and joined him on the couch. He took his hand.

“And then there was you,” Crowley continued.

“Me?”

“You put a baby in a demon, Aziraphale. That’s not just using minor miracles to hoover under the couch. That’s…toast time. That’s a Falling level offence.” Crowley eyed the glass of whiskey and heaved a long, wistful sigh. “So I asked Michael. For a guarantee that you wouldn’t Fall.”

“And?” said Aziraphale. Sounded like something a long way above Michael’s pay grade to him. “What did she say to that?”

“Yes,” said Crowley. “She said she cleared it with the boss. And I, like an idiot, signed the contract. The contract I have now just throughly invalidated when I threatened to curse some tiresome dipshit back in New York.” He covered his mouth with both hands for a moment, his yellow eyes shimmering wet. “And I’ve fucked it all up. Because now you’re going to Fall. And it’s all my fault.”

“Bollocks,” said Aziraphale, with a certainty that came from far outside himself.

“What?”

“Bollocks. I mean it.” He was just as terrified as he’d been all night, but something – or someone – told him to have faith. Aziraphale the Unfallen. Wasn’t that what She’d said? It was _very_ unlikely that a mess of an angel like him would ever have got the direct line, but there were some things where you just had to take that leap. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe she’s got the authorisation to make that kind of promise. Talk me through what happened, when Michael said that to you.”

“I said I needed a guarantee,” said Crowley. “She said she couldn’t do that. I held out, so she picked up her phone and…she talked to someone for a minute.”

“Did you hear what she said?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean—”

“—she was bluffing,” said Aziraphale, getting up to pace.

“How do you know? You can’t say that for certain.”

“No, but I know Michael,” he said. “And it’s been a very long time since she clipped anyone’s wings. She was _itching_ for Armageddon. If there’d been even the slightest possibility of kicking me into the pit she would have been cock-a-bloody-hoop. How did she seem to you?”

“Not…cock-a-bloody-hoop…?” said Crowley, hesitantly. “Not that I’m entirely sure what that means. Do you have your own special dictionary or something?”

“Happy,” said Aziraphale. “Did she seem happy?”

“Why didn’t you just say happy in the first place? No. Not particularly happy. Why? Is there a point to this, or can we get on with moving to Alpha Centauri before they come and kill us, please?”

“_No_,” said Aziraphale. “We are not moving to Alpha Centauri. The closest thing you have to a gynecologist is here on Earth, and I don’t know if you know this, but we happen to be in the catchment area of some really excellent primary schools. The Ofstead reports alone…”

Crowley let out a short wail of despair. “Angel, for fuck’s sake…I love that you’ve thought this far ahead, but will you _please_ concentrate on what I’m trying to tell you?” He got up, tears in his eyes again. “I signed a contract. I broke the contract. And part of that contract was a guarantee that you wouldn’t Fall.”

“Then why haven’t I Fallen?” said Aziraphale, who had been here before. “If I was going to Fall, I’d have Fallen by now.” Something clicked into place inside his head, like the tumbler of a lock. “Oh my God. It’s _ineffable_.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Michael. When she was on the phone in the spa. I was so busy throwing a fit at the language she used that I wasn’t really listening, but she said something about ‘two halves of the same headache.’ And that it was ineffable. She said ‘He’s ineffable. As in we can’t eff him up.’ Crowley, what if she was talking about me?”

Crowley frowned. “Why are you _just_ telling me this now?”

“Because I’m also a cretin,” said Aziraphale. “And I didn’t make the connection until now. Think about it, Crowley. I just chased off the Archangel Gabriel with a budget vacuum cleaner. I shouldn’t be able to do that. If he came here to give me the celestial boot, I should have been well and truly booted by now.”

“Yeah, but you said your powers, as a principality…”

“An extremely low ranking angel compared to the Archangel Fucking Gabriel,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley, listen to me. We have discussed this a million times over. We have drank ourselves senseless over it, sobered up and drank ourselves senseless all over again. And we always come down to the same answers. It’s ineffable. It doesn’t make any sense. I should have fallen a dozen times now. I’ve lied. I’ve disobeyed. I’ve coveted desserts. They handed me a uniform and told me to fight, and I said no. I blatantly disobeyed. And I was ready. I was ready to Fall then, because I was sure I would, yet here I am. Think about it. According to all the rules of Heaven I should be nothing more than a series of bubbles in a pool of boiling sulphur by now. And yet here I am. Ineffably. Threatening archangels with vacuum cleaners. We’re cogs, Crowley. We’re cogs in something far bigger than ourselves. Always have been, probably always will be. God only knows.”

“What are you saying?” said Crowley. “That they can’t touch you?”

“It looks that way, doesn’t it? Anyway, why are we worrying about me? What about you? Are you all right?”

“As I’ll ever be,” said Crowley. “Considering how I’m not allowed to drink myself into a much needed stupor.” He ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined everything, I know…”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have. She talked about the benefits package and I thought I could turn it to our advantage, but I fucked up, angel. I fucked up so hard, and now she knows I’m not immune to holy water…”

“Calm down,” Aziraphale said, taking his hands. “It’s not good for you, all this stress.”

Crowley fought back tears. “I think,” he said. “I think I might need to be rescued. Just a bit.”

“Shh.” Aziraphale put both arms around him. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

Somehow. That part wasn’t entirely clear, but his intention was, at least. And that had to count for something, didn’t it?

* * *

On the long, awful flight back from New York, Crowley had had a million ways not to look forward to the conversation – or screaming row – he was going to have with Aziraphale when he got back to London. 

It had gone a lot better than he thought he would. Other than nervously devouring baklava like it was going out of fashion, Aziraphale had been strangely calm about what they needed to do next. First things first – absolute honesty. No more secondhand book fairs and drinks with Sandra, whoever the hell she might be.

Secondly, Crowley needed to relax, because swollen ankles and high blood pressure beckoned. This was easier said than done, because although it had been two days and so far none of the archangels had come near the place, Crowley was still a nervous wreck. That morning Aziraphale had left him ice cream and a note.

_Put your feet up and don’t worry._

_ x_

_A._

Crowley didn’t put his feet up. And he immediately started to worry. He stress ate half of the ice cream, felt sick, tried and failed to _be_ sick, then plunged headlong into the absolute meltdown that had finally brought him here, back to St. George’s Hospital in Tooting.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Sister Mary, looking and sounding so sick of the sight of him that he almost yearned for her to return to her old Satanic obsequiousness, embarrassing as it had been. “What is it this time?”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak and promptly burst into tears. Loud tears. Snotty tears. The kind of open-mouthed, helpless wailing that probably happened a lot in hospitals but shouldn’t have happened to a demon, and definitely shouldn’t have happened to a demon who wasn’t even a) drunk or b) staring down the apocalypse or c) mourning the fiery loss of the love of his life.

Sister Mary discreetly steered him into small waiting room full of scarred fake-leather seats and dog-eared _Take A Break_ magazines. “I’m sorry,” he said, when he could finally catch enough of a breath to talk again. “I’m sorry…I can’t…I can’t seem to…”

She handed him a box of tissues. “It’s all right, pet. Shh. Everything’s all right.”

“It’s _not!_” said Crowley, leaping up from the chair to flail. “It’s _terrible_. Look at me. I’m a complete fucking basketcase. I’m a demon. I turned the M25 into a roaring ring of hellfire. I was the tempter of Eve. I am the author of all evil, the original sin, and look at the state of me now. I’m grumpy, sleepy, horny, farty, bloaty, queasy and _thick_. Like a shit version of the Seven Dwarves. Nobody warned me it would make me this _stupid_, but all of a sudden I’m thick as mince and I can barely operate a fucking spoon. The other day I went to wash my hands and squeezed toothpaste on my palm, then – I shit you not – I actually stood there for a good thirty seconds wondering why this handwash was stripey, sticky, smelled of mint and wasn’t lathering correctly. I’ve made so many bad decisions lately that I don’t even know how I’m still alive. I mean, what the fuck is that all about? You should be smarter when you’re pregnant, not stupider. I’ve got two people to keep alive instead of just the usual one, but this one in here doesn’t seem to realise it relies on me and has fucked about with my hormones until my brain feels like it’s been replaced with a dish sponge…”

Sister Mary shushed him. “It’s okay. Calm down. Deep breaths.” She sighed along with him. “That’s it.”

“It’s awful,” said Crowley. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lurid article headline on the cover of the nearest Take A Break magazine – _My One Night Stand With Satan: Prince of Darkness drank FOUR BOTTLES of Tia Maria and snorted my grandmother’s ashes._ He didn’t like to think what it said about his state of mind that his first thought was that Satan would _never_ drink Tia Maria. At least, not while there was at least one bottle of DiSaronno within a fifty mile radius. And fuck, what he wouldn’t do for an Amaretto Sour right now, and he didn’t even like them. “I can’t go on like this. I can’t.”

“I know. So…you still think you’re pregnant?”

Crowley stared at her. “Of course I’m fucking pregnant,” he said. “I don’t normally function at this kind of emotional level. Look at me. I’m bouncing off the walls and I’m not even four months gone. I can’t do this for however long it takes to bake a demon baby. I can’t take the stress and I can’t even drink in order to cope with it. Isn’t there something you can give me to even me out? Pills or something?”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do. First things first, have you had an ultrasound?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s book that.”

“Book it? For when?”

“I’m afraid there’s a waiting list,” said Sister Mary. “We keep asking the government for more money, but you know how it is. If it’s not austerity it’s bloody Brexit.” She gave him a long, furtive look. “That wasn’t…our side, was it? Brexit?”

“Your side,” said Crowley. “I don’t have a side any more. Other than my own. Anyway, how long is this waiting list?”

“Well, with the way things are at the moment, we can probably squeeze you in about three months from now.”

“Three months?” said Crowley. “Sod that. The kid’ll be practically crowning by then.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sister Mary. “There’s not much I can do.”

“No, but _I_ can. Let me pull some strings.”

Crowley pulled. Five minutes later they were in an ultrasound room that had just miraculously become free in Diagnostic Imaging. He had briefly contemplated stopping time, but decided it was probably inadvisable in his condition. He could return himself to the normal timeline okay – had plenty of practice at that – but he had scary visions of what might happen if he somehow accidentally froze the baby in time and doomed himself to endure this hideous emotional state forever. There wasn’t enough ice cream in the universe to cope with that.

“This is going to be a bit cold,” said Sister Mary, glopping chilly goo on his bared stomach. He couldn’t see the screen, and wasn’t sure if he should ask. Especially since Aziraphale should have been here for this, now that he thought about it. It was a big moment, but in his panic to do something Crowley had ended up doing it all by himself. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes once more, and he waited hopefully for Sister Mary to start cooing about tiny little hoofykins.

Only she didn’t. She didn’t say anything as she looked at the screen, but she didn’t have to. Just the look on her face was enough to make Crowley want to start crying again.

“What is it?” he said, and it was an effort to remember how to actually talk. The inside of his stomach suddenly felt like it had been carved from ice. “What’s wrong?”

“Um…” Sister Mary swallowed. “I can’t…I can’t see anything in there.”

“What do you mean? Maybe it doesn’t show up on scans. I mean, it stands to reason – the kid’s not human, after all.”

She sighed and turned the screen towards him, revealing a series of grainy blobs. “Yes, perhaps,” she said. “But you don’t appear to have a uterus either. Or ovaries.”

“What?” Crowley pointed to the largest visible blob. “What’s that?”

“That’s your bladder.”

“Are you sure?”

“I do have a degree in nursing, you know,” said Sister Mary, frowning at the image. “Although…not quite sure what _that_ is…”

“Spare lung,” said Crowley. “I think. Don’t worry about that. Unless the kid’s hiding behind it, of course.” He prodded himself in the side. “Come on, you. Stop lurking. I know you’re part demon, but you’ll have plenty of time to nail the whole lurking thing once you’re born. Nobody likes an earnest overachiever.”

He stared unblinking at the screen, trying very hard not to think about things that had rapidly become all too real and now had swerved – with the same dizzying speed – into the realms of absurd fantasy. A tiny head of curls as tight as Aziraphale’s, filling the cupped palm of his supporting hand. A pang of longing when he passed a pram at the checkout of Sainsbury’s and glimpsed a loosely curled, minature fist. Fingernails so small and perfect they looked like works of art rather than life.

Any minute now. He watched, waiting for something to stir in there. The shape of a hand, the flutter of a foetal heart. Anything. Something. Please.

But there was nothing. The grainy grey blobs of his innards were empty, and his head was full. Really full. And already he could see the vast horror of it ahead of him – what it said about his state of mind that he’d _believed_ this, that his imagination had once again proved to be this powerful. “Look again,” he said. “I must be pregnant. I have to be pregnant. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The mood swings, the bloating, the constant farting, the tiredness. The cravings. What about the cravings? I’ve been a strictly social eater for over six thousand years, and suddenly I can’t live without ice cream?”

Sister Mary sighed and turned off the screen. “I’m sorry. I can see you’re bloated, but there’s nothing in there. You don’t even have the necessary reproductive organs to carry a pregnancy. Have you maybe thought about getting checked out for food sensitivities?”

Crowley wiped the ultrasound goop off his belly. “Right,” he said. They were back to this again. “So what? It’s a gluten thing?”

“Or lactose,” said Sister Mary. “How much ice cream have you been eating?”

“A lot,” said Crowley. “But it’s not that.”

“I can refer you for an allergy test if you like,” she said.

Crowley got up off the couch and fastened his jeans. “Nope,” he said, in no mental shape to discover he’d signed a misguided contract and risked everything he held dear – home, love, angel, all of it – on account of an _allergy_. “I’m fine. There’s nothing in there. Nothing going on with me. And it’s fine. Better than fine, actually, because now I can go and get pissed.”

“Is there someone we can call for you?” said Sister Mary, with far more sincere concern than he could cope with right now. “I am sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s all under control. Back to normal. All fine. Tickety-boo, even.” He dived for the door, sunglasses firmly in place. “Thanks for your time.”

Everything was fine now. Everything was back to normal. Back to the way it should have been – just him, Aziraphale, high end restaurants and shocking amounts of alcohol. Okay, so there was the _slight_ problem that Heaven’s enforcer was now righteously and personally pissed off with him, but other than that…

Crowley dropped into the driver’s seat of the Bentley without knowing exactly how he got there. Not pregnant. Nothing growing inside him. No hormones addling his brain. Oh, and that was another thing he didn’t want to think about. Was he really _that_ much of an idiot?

He stared dumbly at his phone for a long moment. Idiot. Magic question box, he’d said. That’s what he’d said to Aziraphale. Stuff anything you like in the little Google box and _voila_, you get an answer. He’d been so fucking smug about it, hadn’t he? So sure he was right that he hadn’t even thought to explore the possibility of food allergies.

Numb, shaken, and arguably dead from the neck up, Crowley typed in one of the many questions he should have asked in the first place. _Are snakes lactose intolerant?_

Click.

Oh. _Oh_. Oh _shit._

* * *

The books were back, as Aziraphale had prophesied.

And they’d come with sequels. Now there were two Waitrose bags full of Fifty Shades novels. “See what I mean?” said Aziraphale, who was standing in the doorway of the bookshop, looking suspiciously like he wanted to smoke. “It’s comforting, in a way. Everything else is falling to terrifying pieces, but there’s something heartening about seeing that the cycle of bad pornography is still in motion. It’s like watching the sun rise, only with poorly researched bondage and domination. Anyway, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, which wasn’t the most intelligent thing he’d ever said, but he still felt decidedly weird. Empty. Relieved. (Bereft? Oh shit.) He’d yet to get a handle on it. “Angel, listen to me. I have to tell you something.”

Aziraphale gave him a wary look. “Oh God. What did you do this time?”

“I went to the hospital again.”

Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s elbow, as if to steer him indoors, but Crowley shook his head. He wasn’t sure he was up to doing anything as complicated as moving right now, because his whole being was focused on just _how_ he was supposed to say what he had to say next. “Okay,” he said. “This is kind of embarrassing. You know how I’ve been eating pretty much everything lately? And how my system’s not that _used_ to eating? And the insane amount of ice cream I’ve been craving?”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t craving,” said Crowley, running a hand through his hair. “I just…I just really wanted to eat it. Along with creamy desserts. And cheese. And stupid coffee flavoured sugar drinks. Anyway, as it turns out, apparently those foods can cause certain problems for certain people. Like bloating. Farting. Queasiness.”

“Vomiting?”

“Uh huh. Skin issues, in extreme cases.”

“Your _feet_,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley recognised the expression that skittered across his face, because it was the same one he’d felt on his own features. The one where you had no idea what to feel just yet, because the thing around which you had constructed your entire recent reality had been whipped out from under you, like a tablecloth in a magic trick performed by a much better magician than Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “I’m not pregnant, Aziraphale. I’m just a lactose intolerant idiot. It turns out that most snakes are. Lactose intolerant, that is. I can’t answer for the idiot part.”

Aziraphale stood stunned, a hand over his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley. “I’m so sorry. Please say something.”

On his way back to Soho, Crowley had played out numerous possible reactions to the news. Disappointment. Relief. Both. But it was safe to say he hadn’t planned on what _actually_ came out of the angel’s mouth.

“My milk snake brings all the boys to the yard,” said Aziraphale, as wide eyed as if this explained everything. Which it totally didn’t.

“Uh…buh?”

“By George, I think I’ve got it,” said Aziraphale. “I know what I have to do.”

He lowered himself to one knee, right there on the doorstep of the bookshop. People stopped to look now, arrested by his posture and the possibility of an unfolding trainwreck.

“What are you doing?” said Crowley, although he knew perfectly well. It wasn’t as if it was the first time.

Aziraphale slid the winged ring from his little finger and held it out. “I’m rescuing you,” he said. “Just a bit. I’m aware that it’s not the perfect grand gesture. And I don’t have a boombox, nor am I completely certain what a boombox even is, but there’s one thing I am sure of, and that’s the fact that I love you more than anything else in the world.”

Crowley swayed, unable to believe he was getting a second chance at this.

“I have a plan, my darling,” said Aziraphale. “And the first step of that plan involves you agreeing to be my husband.” His face, always so expressive, was alight with expectation. “So will you? Anthony J. Crowley, will you marry me?”

Crowley tried to talk, but the air just shot out of his nose, making a ‘hrrrf’ noise.

“Is that a yes?” said Aziraphale, and Crowley nodded frantically. Aziraphale’s hand trembled as he slid the ring onto Crowley’s finger.

People were applauding. Crowley hoisted Aziraphale to his feet and kissed him senseless. While he wasn’t entirely sure what plan was unfolding within the book-lined labyrinth of the angel’s frankly baffling mind, he was definitely sure that he liked this part. “I can’t believe it,” he said, not sure if he was laughing or crying or both. “We’re getting married.”

“Sooner rather than later, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale. “We’re going to have to get a—”

Crowley stopped him with a finger to his lips. “Please don’t say ‘wiggle on.’”

Aziraphale huffed and disappeared into the bookshop. Crowley hung back for a moment, stalled by a girl who had taken pictures of their proposal and wanted to text them to him so that they’d have a permanent memento. It was one of those rare and precious moments where Crowley could barely believe the simple, beautiful kindness of humans, and it would have been perfect had his demon instincts not once again interfered. “Thanks so much,” he said. “That’s really nice of you. Oh, by the way, help yourself to free copies of _Fifty Shades of Grey_.”

He closed the door and flipped the sign to closed. There was no sign of Aziraphale, which was weird, because Crowley was sure he’d had a fiancé around here somewhere.

Fiancé. Oh, he could get used to hearing that.

Aziraphale emerged, carrying a stack of old fashioned telephone directories. “Right,” he said, dumping them on a table. “First thing is the banns, then I’m going to need an observatory, a large quantity of white chalk, lots of candles, a copy of the Book of Common Prayer, a unitarian minister and a job lot of those yellow signs they use when the floor of a building is wet and slippery.”

“Or,” said Crowley. “We could have a drink to celebrate.” He suddenly realised what he’d said, and the glorious realm of boozy possibilities now open to him now that he was no longer an expectant mother. “Oh sweet purple dancing fuck…I can _drink_!”

He raced for the kitchenette, in search of whiskey. Aziraphale followed, frowning at Crowley’s phone.

“How does this internet thing work again?” he asked.

Crowley gently confiscated the phone. “No,” he said, already nose deep in a tumbler of Laphroaig Ten. “No, sweetheart. Not right now.”

“I have a wedding to plan,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley nuzzled in, alternating kisses with sips of whiskey. “In a minute,” he said. “Or an hour.” He drained the glass and moaned in bliss at the strong, smoky belt of it. “I just got engaged. And found out I’m not pregnant.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s tie, pulled him in and kissed him like he was trying to swallow him whole, lips first. “I need whiskey. And orgasms. Weird orgasms. Celestial orgasms.”

It took Aziraphale a moment to realise what Crowley meant – that _everything_ was back on the menu – but when he did his reaction was akin to discovering that not only was his favourite up on the specials board, but also that they’d expanded the dessert menu _and_ the wine list. He smiled, his eyes already the deep, stormy blue-grey shade that Crowley associated with angelic lust, and ran the tip of his finger over Crowley’s lower lip.

“Suck,” he said, but Crowley didn’t even need to be told. He latched on to that delicate stream of light and love and desire and suckled greedily. He came immediately, in deep, pulsing, clutching waves that reminded him he hadn’t yet changed his genitals back to the usual. “Oh fuck, I want you. I want you so much,” he said, wriggling his jeans down over his hips and pulling Aziraphale’s hand between his thighs. “Feel. I’m all wet and gushy.”

Aziraphale sank to his knees, trying to both remove Crowley’s tight jeans and eat him at the same time. It wasn’t entirely successful, but the messy fumble of it was delicious, and Crowley still had his jeans bunched around one ankle when Aziraphale – hard, blunt, his tongue salty and his trousers round his knees – pushed inside him with an explosive gasp of short relief.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, holding him there for a moment. He cast a sidelong glance at the floor and arched an eyebrow in a sexy smile. “And I _hate_ that linoleum.”

“Let’s fucking torch it,” said Crowley, moaning as Aziraphale started to move. “No…wait, the angle’s all wrong. Pull out for a second…that’s it.” He turned and bent over the narrow kitchen counter, arse in the air. Aziraphale, understanding perfectly what he wanted, plunged back in and gave him a ribald little smack on the arse.

“I want so much weird sex,” Crowley gasped. “Floor melting…midair collisions…oh yes…”

“…minor earthquakes…”

“…major earthquakes. Fucking seismic events…oh fuck yes, slap my arse, pull my hair…that’s _it_…” His dick chose that moment to protest about being sidelined for so long and put in a long overdue appearance, momentarily confusing Aziraphale. Crowley cried out, thrilled by the old familiar weight and jiggle and thrust between his legs, amazed he hadn’t even considered the possibilities of having both sets of genitals at once until now.

“Um…you seem to be doing both…” Aziraphale said, in a breathless voice, his fingers wrapping around Crowley’s cock.

“Oh, I can do it all,” said Crowley, reaching for the whiskey, drinking and banging at the same time, spilling single malt all over the kitchenette. “Get your fingers up my arse. I want you everywhere at once…oh yeah…like that. Like that…yes…yes…_yes_, fuck me…”

When Aziraphale’s fingers found the crucial spot inside him, Crowley realised that right now he had _two_ g-spots. And Aziraphale was on both of them. He almost lost control of his wings, but while he was trying to rein in one supernatural aspect of himself, another one slipped out.

Or rather it didn’t slip. It exploded. Other than the time when he’d tempted the woman in the bookshop, Crowley had been holding back his power, on Aziraphale’s insistence that they kept things strictly human in the bedroom. His lust burst out of him, a fluttering black explosion in the tiny space. He heard Aziraphale’s breath hitch and then the angel began to _howl_, a long, multi-noted ‘oh fuuu-uuuck’ of a volume and clarity that said they’d seriously missed a trick when they kicked him out of the Heavenly Choir.

It was everywhere. Crowley felt the sticky black sweetness of it coat his own tongue as he breathed in. Dark stars burst behind his eyes as he came, and Aziraphale whispered – all in a rush – “ohIcan_feel_you,” and pushed deep with his cock and fingers, finishing with several hard, shuddering strokes of his hips.

Crowley’s knees trembled, but Aziraphale – who was a lot stronger than he looked – held him there and bent over him, pushing him down on the counter. Lust settled like soot in the room. The linoleum sizzled, and smelled. Crowley twitched around him, whimpering quietly, and Aziraphale chuckled gently and pushed deep one last time, one of those casual strokes that spoke of ownership and made something inside Crowley melt. He kissed the soft skin behind Crowley’s ear and whispered, “I’m going to _marry_ you.” He slipped out, kissed the base of Crowley’s spine and disappeared, leaving Crowley steaming and satisfied, bent over the mini-fridge with his jeans around one ankle.

“Oh fuck,” said Crowley, and poured out another shot of Laphraoig. It tasted like nectar. He squirmed back into his jeans and staggered back out on wobbly, well-fucked legs. Aziraphale, who had just cleaned up at the Victorian sink at one end of the back room, was peering over his glasses into Crowley’s phone, apparently still determined to get the hang of this whole Google business.

“Well,” said Crowley, collapsing on the couch beside him. “If I wasn’t pregnant before, I probably am now.”

Aziraphale tried to glare, but couldn’t quite manage it, not in the light of his usual post-coital glow. “Very funny,” he said, and gave Crowley a sidelong glance. A purposeful glance. The kind of glance that always made Crowley nervous because it signalled that a conversation was about to happen. One of _those_ conversations. The ones involving emotions. He removed his glasses, folded them carefully and set them down on the coffee table, alongside the phone. “How are you feeling?”

“Whyyy? I’m fine. I’m great. I’m slightly drunk and I’m going to get drunker. This is the best I’ve been for ages.”

“Don’t be evasive,” said Aziraphale. “You can’t just drown all your feelings in alcohol, you know.”

“Maybe not,” said Crowley. “But I feel as though I should at least be given the opportunity to _try_.”

He glanced at the phone on the coffee table. The screen showed something about the _Cutty Sark_, but it blinked off into sleep mode before he had the chance to reach for it and the distraction it offered. “So what did they say at the hospital?” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, you know. The usual. That I’m not pregnant. That I can’t be pregnant.” He took another long swallow of whiskey. “Apparently I haven’t got a uterus.”

“Oh.”

“Mm. Or ovaries. Or the…the tubey bits. I don’t have any of those.” Crowley prodded his lactose-bloated belly. “No baby making bits in here. Or a baby. I’m empty…well, sort of empty. They showed me on the ultrasound. I’m full of all kinds of grey, grainy blobs, but none of the specific blobs you need if you want to bake a baby for nine months…so…”

Aziraphale reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Crowley’s ear. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I told you. I’m better than fine. I can drink, and have a penis. Two penises.” Crowley bared his teeth in a grin, practically begging Aziraphale to start smiling and stop looking so bloody concerned. “Come on. I know you enjoyed the two dicks thing. It’s good news. We can have all the weird metaphysical sex we like, _and_ I can’t get pregnant.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Very sure. Turns out Nurse Mary was right all along. I don’t have what it takes to make babies. Periods, or whatever. I might not even be a mammal.”

Aziraphale was doing his best, but his eyebrows were still set at an angle somewhere between ‘oh fuck’ and ‘Are you sure you don’t need me to make you a nice, strong cup of tea?’ “What about your whole…spawning thing?” he said. “I thought you said that demons spawn, and you’re a demon, so…”

“Right,” said Crowley. “Yeah. That. You know how I was a succubus for a while?”

“Yes.”

“And you know what succubi do? Taking in human sperm—”

“—and spawning minor demons. Yes.”

“Right,” said Crowley. “Well, it turns out I wasn’t very good at it. I never…you know…actually _spawned_. Although to be fair I was also very bad at the taking in human sperm part, too, which is why I figured I didn’t do much in the way of spawning.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Then what on earth were you doing in the Papal Apartments that time? Or do I want to know?”

“Oh. That. Well, you’ve heard of a strap-on, right?”

“Of course I have. I lived nextdoor to a sex shop for the best part of thirty years,” said Aziraphale. “Wait, are you telling me you _pegged_ a fifteenth century pope?”

“Not exactly,” said Crowley. “Let’s just say I wasn’t completely clear on where demon babies come from at the time. I told you, I was a crap succubus. On reflection it probably should have bought me a clue that time I sat on a witchfinder’s—”

“—_no_—”

“—the evidence was right there, angel. I didn’t give birth to anything after that. Nothing. No minor demons. No writhing nests of snakes. And we know he was fertile, because his descendant looks exactly like him.” Crowley groaned as it finally occurred to him. “I fucked a guy with ten kids and the strongest sperm in Lancashire and I didn’t get pregnant that time. Oh, I am an _idiot_.”

Aziraphale patted his knee. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, darling. It was only recently that I realised that this body of mine might not be regulation.”

“Regulation?”

“Yes. As regards the usual heavenly snippage. Think about it. The Antichrist gave me this body. It’s not standard heavenly issue.”

“And it might not have had the old…?”

“Procedure. Yes.”

Crowley stared into his whiskey and remembered being very, very afraid of a vacuum cleaner. They’d thought they were being clever when they did all that stuff with the sex notebook, the creeping fig and one of Aziraphale’s feathers, but now it turned out that there might have been a much simpler explanation all along. “Shit,” he said. “I never thought of that, either.”

“I know,” said Aziraphale, reaching for the bottle. “I think we might be too stupid to be parents.”

“Oh, come on. Nobody’s very clever when they’re panicking. And parenthood does tend to make you…well…”

“Panic? Yes. Rather a lot.” Aziraphale sipped and sighed. “Maybe I should just make sure this body is…you know…done.”

“_Done?_”

“Crowley, I’ve had six thousand years to get used to the idea of not having children. I’m sort of used to it. And now I’m not sure if I ever want to have sex again in case something generative occurs.”

“We just had sex,” said Crowley.

“I know,” said Aziraphale, pressing a hand to his chest. “And I’m already having palpitations about it.” He shuddered. “Not sure I want to go through all that panic and anxiety again, _all_ of which could have been avoided by me sitting on a packet of frozen peas for a couple of days.”

Crowley stared at him, baffled by the thought of Aziraphale voluntarily repeating the thing that had been done to him by force. Then again, it _was_ voluntary, which he supposed made all the difference. And they probably _were_ too stupid to be parents.

“Look,” said Aziraphale. “I’m not happy about the way it happened the first time, but I told you…I got used to the idea of being childless. It’s not that I wouldn’t have loved our baby, but…well…”

“It would have been a shock to the system.”

“Yes. Huge shock.”

“What if it wasn’t a baby?” said Crowley. “What if it had been an egg? Or a hundred and fifty snakes?”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, making Crowley laugh.

“You tried so hard to roll with that, didn’t you?” he said.

“They’re actually very interesting creatures,” said Aziraphale. “And they would have been our children. Of course I would have loved them.”

He would, too. Without mercy. Crowley pictured the bookshop ankle deep in writhing serpents. Snakes wriggling out of the bureau drawer, spilling out of the sink, squirming all over the statuary and winding around the chair legs. And Aziraphale in the middle of it all, insisting that he loved each and every one of them, even the ones he couldn’t actually _find_ at the moment. It was funny now, now that there was no possibility of it happening, except for the part where the laughter opened the door on a vault of complicated emotions that Crowley was not yet remotely ready to start dealing with. For a while back there the kid had seemed very, very real, and Crowley had adapted in the same unexpected and not entirely welcome ways he’d adapted whenever Warlock Dowling had asked for a lullaby at bedtime, or finally slumped into an exhausted, feverish sleep after hours of screaming and picking miserably at his chicken pox.

No. Aziraphale was probably right: they were far too old and far too stupid to go through that shit again.

“Are you okay?” Crowley asked.

“Yes. I’m fine. Honestly.” Aziraphale squeezed his knee and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” said Crowley. “And I’m sorry I got us into so much trouble for nothing. Now the archangels are going to fucking kill me because I didn’t realise I was lactose intolerant.”

Aziraphale shook his head and got up from the sofa. “Not if I have anything to do with it,” he said, heading for a nearby pile of books. “I told you, I have a plan.”

Crowley followed, glass in hand. “This isn’t one of your spa day plans, is it?”

“Nope. This is a good one. Divinely inspired. Word of God, Crowley. Word of God.”

“You know we can’t get married in a church, don’t you?” said Crowley. “Not without me being like one of those lizards on hot sand all the way through the ceremony.” 

“We don’t have to,” said Aziraphale, bustling about. He was good at bustling, and knocking things over, which resulted in more bustling and a general impression that one was in the presence of a world class bustler who had been bustling for over six thousand years. “The Royal Observatory at Greenwich does weddings. It’s perfect. We can get married in that lovely Octagon Room that Christopher Wren built at Flamsteed House.” He looked Crowley up and down. “Did you have any preferences for formalwear, or are you happy to keep it casual?”

“Uh…what? I literally _just_ got engaged. Shouldn’t there be champagne or something first before we pick out our morning suits?”

Aziraphale sighed and bookmarked something in the telephone directory he’d been reading. “Darling, I know this isn’t ideal, but we _are_ going to have to do it sooner rather than later.”

“What about witnesses?”

“I’ll call the Shadwells. Stop worrying. I can see it all clearly. I know exactly what we have to do.”

“What about cake?” said Crowley. “Flowers?” Surely this was the kind of thing Aziraphale should have been fussing about. He loved a nice floral arrangement, and his feelings on cake were so profound, tender and meaningful that if he had decided to express them in writing he would have needed at least twice as many words as Marcel Proust had devoted to his petit madeleine.

But for once Aziraphale didn’t fuss. He just smiled, and planted a long kiss on Crowley’s lips, teasing with his tongue and coaxing Crowley’s mouth open with soft, deep licks that made Crowley’s knees want to forget how bipedalism worked. And he _hummed_, a low, throaty purr of angelic contentment, so beguiling that Crowley didn’t even register the crack of pottery as the plant pot containing a nearby ficus ruptured under the pressure of new root growth. Aziraphale broke the kiss with a slow suck on Crowley’s bottom lip and whispered, “There.”

More than slightly stupefied, Crowley opened his eyes and saw that roses had sprung up, crowding out the somewhat confused ficus. The blooms on the bush were two colours, some creamy pale gold and others the deep, dark red of the roses Crowley had allegedly generated in the kitchen windowbox. “Flowers,” said Aziraphale, all just-kissed sweetness, flushed lips and shining eyes. “I’m sure we can find some cake somewhere.”

“Stop it,” said Crowley, swaying into him and curling a hand around the nape of his neck. “You know I never know what to do when you get all romantic.”

Aziraphale plucked one of the pale gold roses. “You know exactly what to do,” he said, pinning the flower to the lapel of Crowley’s jacket. “Marry me.” 


	7. Ineffably Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a long overdue wedding.

Aziraphale had made plans before, some more successful than others. His attempt at writing a romance novel might have fallen by the wayside, but occasionally he came up with gems like ‘I know, let’s swap bodies and I’ll be you and you be me and they’ll never know the difference because I can do the voice and everything, and what do you mean? I don’t sound a _bit_ like Leslie Phillips.’*

On the other hand he wasn’t a naturally devious creature in the way that Crowley was, and he was also more than capable of coming up with plans that were more like ‘I know, I’ll possess Shadwell’s missus again, get French tips, freak out about terrible corporate jargon and inadvertently discover that Margie and Doug over there might be into the old choke n’ stroke. And I will convey this information to you, because I am a monster, but not before I wind up in a body bag and a refrigerated morgue locker in Bognor fucking Regis.’

Crowley, who now found himself standing in the Octagon Room at the Greenwich Royal Observatory, sincerely hoped that this was one of the former plans.

Somehow, using angelic powers of persuasion, Aziraphale had gained permission to chalk one of his nervewracking circle things all over the floor, and he was now busy erecting yellow CAUTION – WET FLOOR signs all around the perimeter. Madame Tracy watched with open minded interest, while Shadwell glowered at her side.

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley, to the minister, who was doing her best but had sneaked a surreptitious glance at her watch. “It’s a theme.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right,” said the minister. “I’m used to it. I’ve done all sorts. At least this time I don’t have to speak Klingon. Or Elvish. Sindarin, too. Not Quenya.”

“Yeah, I’ll take your word for it,” said Crowley, glancing over at Aziraphale, who was in mid bustle. “Sorry about him. I should have known he’d turn into a bridezilla. Come _on_, angel. We’ve only booked for an hour, and it was a miracle we go in at…oh. Of course it was.” 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, said “On!” and a column of heavenly light beamed up from the circle to the ceiling and beyond.

“Oh,” said the minister. “Does this mean I need the Klingon version after all?”

The light, a solid column of near blinding white, dimmed enough to make out a number of almost human shapes standing within it.

“What did you just do?” said Crowley.

“I summoned the archangels,” said Aziraphale, coming to join him in front of the minister. He glanced over at Shadwell – who was standing with his mouth open and his finger pointed like he was trying to audition for an amateur dramatic society production of _Invasion Of The Bodysnatchers_. “Stand down, Sergeant Shadwell. They’re not demons. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Crowley blinked into the light. It dimmed even further, and within the circle, crammed shoulder to shoulder and visibly annoyed, were the archangels – Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon…

“…Raphael?” said Crowley. “You managed to summon _Raphael_?”

“I know,” said Aziraphale, adjusting the dark red rose in his button hole. “He’s very hard to get hold of.”

“Yeah, well. He was always the cool one.”

“Rude, if you ask me,” said Aziraphale. “Shall we get on?”

“Aziraphale?” said Gabriel, from inside the circle. His voice echoed. “What the fuck are you playing at now?”

“If you don’t let us out of here there will be _consequences_,” said Michael.

“Consequences, my arse,” said Aziraphale, glaring at her. “You can leave when I’m done with you. Not before.”

The minister, who had been doing very well under the circumstances, gave a nervous cough. “Is this part of the…theme?” she said.

“Let’s say it is,” said Aziraphale. “Shall we get started?”

The minister reached for her book. “Dearly beloved, we have come together in the sight of God to join together this couple in holy matrimony—”

“—sight of _God?_” said Gabriel.

“Sight of God, Word of God,” said Aziraphale. “Which you, as angels, have to obey.”

“What are you _doing_, Aziraphale?”

“I’m getting married, you moron. What does it look like?”

Crowley wriggled happily in the face of all that angelic wrath, safely contained within the summoning circle. He still wasn’t completely sure what was going on, but judging by the look on her face Michael had something of a clue. And she wasn’t happy about it. Good.

“Right,” said the minister. “If anyone has any…should I just skip to that part first, do you think?”

“I’d let them get it over with, yeah,” said Crowley.

“If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now, or else forever hold your peace.”

“Yes!” said Michael, raising a hand. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“It’s an abomination!” said Gabriel. “Disgusting!”

“Unnatural,” agreed Sandalphon, looking like he was in the mood for a reprise of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Thankfully the minister’s sodium levels remained within the normal range. Instead she just blinked and mouthed a soft, silent _wow_.

“I know,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure you know how it is. You don’t want to invite _those_ relatives, but you’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t.”

She gave a sympathetic nod and continued. “I require and charge you both, here in the presence of God, that if either of you know any reason why you may not be united in marriage lawfully, and in accordance with God’s word, you do now confess it.”

“Nope,” said Crowley. This had all happened so fast, especially given that it was coming at the end of a six thousand year courtship, but suddenly this felt dizzyingly real. “No. I’m good.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, all glow and heart-eyes. “You are.”

Crowley melted in his general direction. He couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

“And you?” said the minister, into the space of a pause that could have been anywhere from a minute to a century.

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “I’m…I’m also good. Obviously.”

The archangels seethed. The minister continued. “Aziraphale the Unfallen, will you take this demon to be your ineffably wedded husband? To live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?”

“I absolutely will,” said Aziraphale, his glow blurring as Crowley’s eyes filled. Crowley was almost glad of the presence of the archangels, because if it hadn’t been for them he’d have had difficulty believing that anything this good could ever happen to him outside of a dream.

“Anthony J. Crowley, will you take this angel to be your ineffably wedded husband? To live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?”

A loud, weird snorting noise exploded out of Crowley’s nose. He nodded convulsively.

“Is that a yes?” said the minister.

“Yes,” said Crowley, swallowing down tears. Aziraphale’s smile was brighter and more beautiful than the light of Heaven itself. “I will.”

Madame Tracy loudly blew her nose. Mascara streamed down her cheeks in wet, black Alice Cooper rivulets. “Oh, I always cry at weddings,” she murmured.

“Gross,” said Gabriel.

They exchanged rings with trembling hands, and couldn’t seem to untangle their fingers afterwards. The minister laid her hand on top of theirs and spoke. “What God has joined, let no man, or woman, or angel…” She paused to consult the notes Aziraphale had handed her before the ceremony. “…specifically Seraphim, Cherubim, Ophanim or Throne, Dominion, Lordship, Virtue…”

At last Crowley realised the final part of Aziraphale’s plan. He would have liked to have turned to the archangels to see their expressions, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from his _brilliant_ brand new husband.

“…Stronghold, Power, Principality and _especially_ not Archangel – put asunder.”

This was a sacrament. The minister was speaking the Word of God. And angels were bound to obey the word of God. With a simple twist of Heavenly bureaucracy, Aziraphale had figured out a way to extend his own ineffable invulnerability to Crowley.

“You clever little…angel,” said Crowley, unable to stand it any more. “I know we’re not supposed to kiss yet,” he said to the minister. “But bear with me.” And with that he leaned forward and planted a long, wet passionate one on his angel’s smiling lips, while extending a long overdue middle finger to the archangels. They went right on kissing as the minister pronounced them married, until Aziraphale made a helpless sound that made Crowley realise he was crying. For all his softness Aziraphale wasn’t one to shed tears easily, but now, for the second time in a short space of time, he was in floods.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, laughing and crying at once. “We really did it, didn’t we?”

“We did,” said Crowley, kissing away his tears. “And some would say it was about bloody time.”

“Excuse me,” said Gabriel. “Can we leave?”

Aziraphale quickly dabbed his eyes with a pale polka dot blue handkerchief and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can you?”

“I don’t know,” said Gabriel. “_You_ summoned _us_.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Yes. Sorry. I never did figure out the whole banishing part, did I?” He looked them up and down – all five of them – crammed inside the summoning circle. “I’m so sorry. I’d love to stop and chat, but I’ve got a honeymoon booked in Brighton and I’d prefer to get out of London before the school run traffic clogs everything up.”

The archangels shuffled within the crowded circle. They appeared to be stuck.

“Bye,” said Crowley, heading for the door.

“By the way,” said the minister, on their way out. “I don’t know how you did that whole lighting effect in there, but that would come in very handy for the _Star Trek_ themed weddings. Don’t suppose you’d like to let me in on your secret, do you?”

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale. “But I’m sworn to secrecy on that one. Thank you for letting me draw all over the floor. It should come off just with a mop and a bucket. Would you like me to leave the WET FLOOR signs for you?”

Madame Tracy approached, still sniffling. “Oh, it was a lovely wedding,” she said. “I’ll email you the photos, okay?”

“_Thank you_. How thoughtful.”

Shadwell advanced on her with a thing that might once have been a hanky but now resembled a rag that Crowley wouldn’t have even wiped the Bentley’s gearbox with. “Clean your face, woman. You look like a harlot and a badger had a baby.”

“What the fuck is that about?” said Crowley, as they made for the car. “What does she see in him? I don’t get it. Where’s the thrill in being married to a human cigarette who calls you a whore every five minutes?”

“Don’t kinkshame, dear. Maybe that’s what they’re into.”

“Don’t talk to me about what the Shadwells are into,” said Crowley, who was still reeling from the revelation that at some point Madame Tracy had once had reason – a reason that was almost certainly sexual, knowing Madame Tracy – to use a make-up mirror to check that someone was still breathing. “Not if you want any of my genitals to work on the honeymoon.” He looked at his hands on the steering wheel, saw the new band of gold gleaming there and realised he’d never driven a car while married before. He blinked rapidly and looked over at Aziraphale, who had been sitting right where he was now when he’d talked vaguely about picnics and dining at the Ritz, which – Crowley now knew – was as close as he’d been able to get to saying _I love you, I’m _in_ love with you, I might have always been in love with you, but now that I know I don’t dare to do anything about it_.

Only he dared now. He’d dared to do so many things lately, and the difference – between the anxious angel he’d been back then, and the lovely, liberated bundle of fuck-yous and up-yourses currently occupying the passenger seat of the Bentley – was nothing short of glorious. “So,” said Crowley, basking in the light of Aziraphale’s newlywed smile. “Honeymoon, then?”

“Absolutely. Champagne, massages, Jacuzzi bathtubs, complimentary biscuit selections with extra shortbread – you name it, I’ve booked it.”

Crowley turned the key in the ignition, briefly wondering if he was still allowed to enjoy shortbread, now that he was lactose intolerant. Probably not, on account of the butter. It was pretty much confirmed now, since he’d deflated within about twenty-four hours of putting down the Ben & Jerry’s and switching his coffee order back to his usual espresso. His jeans fit once more, he’d stopped farting and he no longer reeked of sulphur. His feet were still something of a mess, but they’d never been that presentable to start with, what with the scaling and the demonic toenails. He had yet to really explore the mad fairground of mood swings he’d experienced while he’d managed to convince himself that he was pregnant, but that was a conversation for another time. Preferably while drunk.

Half an hour later – due to some driving that even by Crowley’s standards could reasonably be categorised as reckless – they had escaped central London and were barrelling down the M23 in the Bentley, bound for Brighton.

“Do you think they’re still stuck in that circle?” said Crowley. “The archangels, I mean?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I couldn’t give a shit, actually,” he said, making Crowley laugh.

“You’re sexy when you’re bad. Do you know that?”

“Well, you know. One tries.”

“I’m serious,” said Crowley. “That was amazing. That was some very creative writing you did there, with the vows.”

“Oh, I merely tweaked,” said Aziraphale.

“You tweaked me onto the spousal benefits package, you devious bastard. How did you even come up with a thing like that?”

“I had help.”

“From who?”

“From _whom_.”

“Fine,” said Crowley, glancing at the rear view mirror at the sound of a horn. “_Whom?_”

“God, actually.”

“You must be joking.”

“I’m not,” said Aziraphale. “Believe me, I was as surprised as anyone. I never imagined in a million years that I’d get through to the direct line again. Even in the face of Armageddon I ended up being put through to the Metatron, and you know it didn’t exactly go well the last time I spoke directly to the Lord…”

“Right,” said Crowley. There was an Eddie Stobart lorry several cars back, and some big white thing behind it was beeping impatiently and trying to overtake. “Because you lied your arse off.”

“Precisely. Both buttocks. It’s a miracle I had anything to sit on at all for the next six thousand years, really. Which is probably why I wasn’t entirely prepared for an audience with Herself. I never imagined I’d have such an opportunity again.”

“So what happened?” said Crowley. “Did you hear the voice of God in the bookshop or something?”

“No. It was after you called from New York. I panicked, prayed, did an immoderate but necessary amount of drinking and passed out. That was when I had the dream, you see.”

“You had a dream?” Someone was really mashing the horn back there. Crowley hoped the lorry had one of those _How Am I Driving?_ signs on the back. They were the exact kind of small but intense annoyances that made his Inner Demon wriggle like a happy puppy. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “I dreamed that I was walking naked through the Garden of Eden…”

“…ooh, no…”

“…oh yes…”

“…not one of those…”

“…cock-out-in-front-of-the-boss anxiety dreams?” said Aziraphale. “Well, yes. That’s exactly what I thought was happening, at the time. But then She called me Aziraphale the Unfallen, you see, which should have tipped me off, considering what Michael said at the spa. Of course, I didn’t connect the dots there and then. I just thought it was a weird dream, and you know me and dreams…”

“I know,” said Crowley. “Still getting the hang of them.”

“Very much so. Besides, there were certain things around me that were happening that did seem quite…dreamy.”

“What? Someone was playing chess with a bee? Satan appeared in the form of baked goods?”

“Similar,” said Aziraphale. “God was doing the Twist. To Chubby Checker. And She had a snake, a little striped thing, wound around Her arm. And She said ‘Don’t mind him. He’s a milk snake. He brings all the boys to the yard.’”

“Ohhh,” said Crowley, realisation beginning to dawn. “Which is why you said the thing you said that made me think you might be having a stroke.”

“Yes! God explained that they called them milk snakes because people believed they liked to slither into dairies, bite the udders of cows and suck out the milk. Which of course was nonsense, because in reality snakes are—”

“—lactose intolerant. Holy shit.”

“Well, yes,” said Aziraphale. “As shit goes, it _was_ fairly holy. I didn’t put it all together until you came back from the hospital, and then I realised it had been more than just a strange, drunken, sleeping brainfart. And it put a whole new complexion on the other things She told me in the dream.”

“What other things?”

“She mentioned the time when She had to send an angel into a dream, to persuade Joseph to marry Mary. Because the whole incarnation business would have gone significantly south—”

“—if the poor girl had been stoned to death for getting knocked up by God,” said Crowley. “Yeah. I remember. Didn’t really think that one through Upstairs, did they?”

“You’re a fine one to talk,” said Aziraphale. “_I_ seem to remember you being female during that particularly inhospitable time to be a woman. Anyway, don’t piddle on God’s plans. She was the one who made me realise that the most effective way to protect you from Heaven was to marry you. You’re no longer on the payroll, but this way you don’t lose the benefits package.”

“Brilliant,” said Crowley. “Best idea you’ve had since you took your impressions act on tour in Hell. You’re a genius, and I love you.”

Aziraphale blushed. “I should hope so. You just married me, after all.”

The lorry behind them parped indignantly, and Crowley finally got a good look at what was causing all the fuss back there. It was a limo with no numberplates, but that wasn’t the most startling thing about it, because the limo was _white_. Not the usual kind of white you saw on a motorway, the kind that wasn’t exactly white and usually had WASH ME written in the grime with a finger. Not even that shiny new, fresh out of the carwash white that acted as a laxative on any bird flying within five hundred yards on the vehicle. Birdshit would have bounced right off this kind of white, the same way that even the filthiest shoes would leave no mark on the pristine, featureless white floors of Heaven.

The archangels had escaped from the circle.

“I don’t want to worry you,” said Crowley. “But there’s a white limo that seems to be following us.”

Aziraphale turned to look. “Oh. Oh no. That looks like Gabriel’s car.”

“I didn’t even know he had a car,” said Crowley. “Crap car, by the way. Like a big white box on wheels. May as well be driving a fridge.”

“It probably _has_ a fridge.”

“Pfft. Whatever. So he’s driving around in a limo with a mini fridge.” Crowley ground his teeth and pressed his foot down harder. “What is he? A teenager trying to make prom happen in Sussex? Fucking wanker.”

“Crowley, stop it.”

“Not doing anything,” said Crowley, trying not to look like he’d never once fantasised about beating the Archangel Gabriel in a car chase.

“You’re doing almost a hundred,” said Aziraphale. “Please try not to get us killed before we’ve even had an opportunity to consummate the…oh. That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“Why they’re following us. We’re legally married, yes, but there’s still a loophole. We’re not spiritually, indissolubly married until we…you know…”

“Fuck?” said Crowley.

“Yes.”

“Okay. So let’s pull over and make this official.”

“No,” said Aziraphale, scowling into the wing mirror at the limo. “I booked us the Honeymoon Suite at one of the best hotels in Brighton. I’m not consummating my marriage in a layby on the M23 on account of the Archangel fucking Gabriel.”

“Is Fucking his first name or something?” said Crowley, but Aziraphale was too busy seething.

“I got us the whole package,” he said. “Champagne, sea views, room service. And there’s a _spa_. They might even be able to do something with your toenails. Put your foot down, darling.”

“Yes, dear,” said Crowley, and did.

* * *

After a miraculously fast check-in they hurried up to the Honeymoon Suite, where Aziraphale hung the Do-Not-Disturb sign and Crowley headed for the big, white bed, strewing bits of clothing in his wake. “Any preference for which loophole you want to close first?” he said. “Because I’m down to get pounded.” He grabbed Aziraphale by the front of his waistcoat and pulled him into a greedy kiss, full of anticipatory moans and wide, wet swirls of tongue. And of course it took him less than a minute to start complaining. “Why are there so many _straps_ involved?” he said, tugging at Aziraphale’s braces. “_Tartan_ straps. Honestly, sometimes it’s like trying to make love to the bike rack you miracled on the back of the car.”

Aziraphale sighed and removed everything with a snap of his fingers. “Better?” he said, giving Crowley a gentle shove in the middle.

Crowley – wearing nothing but a single black sock and a wedding ring – flopped backwards onto the bed and grinned. “Much,” he said, and rolled over onto his knees with a suggestive wiggle. “Come on then. Consummate my brains out.”

Seemed like everyone was making rather free with the miracles today, but it _was_ a special occasion. Crowley was soft and slippery, the heat and tightness of him stealing Aziraphale’s breath and emptying his mind of everything but sensation as he pushed inside. He hung there for a moment, savouring the warmth and drinking in the sight of the long, graceful body beneath him, then Crowley made that soft, impatient growl that Aziraphale had come to think of as his fuck-me noise. “Oh, my love,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward, his belly against Crowley’s back. “My sweet…”

“Do you think this counts as consummation?” said Crowley, rocking his hips back against Aziraphale.

“Strictly speaking…” Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around Crowley and started to move, with slow, shallow thrusts. “It’s from the past participle…of the Latin verb _consummare_…” Twin curls of heat began to uncoil and flicker in his brain and balls. “To finish. To bring to…oh, yes…to completion. So I should probably…”

Crowley moaned and clenched gently around him. “If you think I’m going to finish to a discussion of etymology then you’ve got another thing coming,” he said, his hips moving with a deliberate rhythm now, his knees digging into the mattress. “Now put down the dictionary and start talking dirty.”

Aziraphale laughed and kissed the back of his shoulder. “All right, dear. What would you like? Would you like me to praise you?” Crowley made a low whine of assent. “I never know where to start, darling. Your thighs, your mouth, your beautiful hands, your whorish hips, your tight little arse…”

“…oh, fuck, yeah. That’s the stuff…”

Harder now. Faster. He was conscious of the need to come, and he didn’t think it was going to take him long. Crowley seemed determined to make sure everyone in the entire hotel knew what was going on behind the Do Not Disturb sign, and Aziraphale realised that it might actually not be a bad thing to have people overhear. Witnesses, as it were. Nothing as uncomfortable as those medieval moments when a couple of nervous, unacquainted teenagers were shoved into a bed together and expected to fuck in front of kings and bishops, but at least they should send a message that the not-very-teenaged couple in the Honeymoon Suite were – despite their advanced age of over twelve thousand collective years – energetically honeymooning.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, raising his voice over Crowley’s moans. “I love the way you take my cock. I love the way you beg for it, when you’re like this, on your knees with your arse in the air…”

Crowley let out a loud, shuddering wail, his fingers white-knuckled on the duvet cover beneath him. A familiar sight, yet unfamiliar, because now there was a ring on his third finger, and when Aziraphale’s hand covered his, there was a ring on his finger, too. “Ohdarlingweremarried,” Aziraphale said, all in one breath, because the joy of it seemed to punch the breath out of him. “I’m inside my _husband_.”

“Harder…oh yeah, oh fuck yes, we’re _married_…”

“…yes, we are.” Aziraphale could feel Crowley quiver and tense. Nearly there. Nearly. “Come on. Come for me. Going to…oh yes…consummate…this…”

“Oh _yeeesss!_”

A large black wing exploded outwards, smacking him in the face. Sputtering through a mouthful of feathers, Aziraphale grabbed onto Crowley’s bucking hips and came loud and hard, a second or two behind Crowley, whose knees had already begun to tremble. Aziraphale held him up and they sank down to the bed together, gasping, sweating and – in Crowley’s case – fluttering gently. The room seemed very quiet suddenly, in the wake of all their moaning and flapping. Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s wings and listened to his slowing breaths, to the sound of traffic on the street outside and the soft shhh of the sea tugging over shingle. _Married. My husband._ He thought he would never get tired of thinking, saying or hearing those words.

“Holy shit,” said Crowley. “Did you…?”

“Consummate? Oh yes. Very much so.”

Aziraphale moved to let him up. Crowley rolled over to face him, big black wings hanging over the side of the bed. “You look lovely,” he said.

“So do you. You look officially…” There was really no other word for it. “…fucked.”

Crowley grinned. “I am,” he said. “Married sex is _fantastic_.”

“I know. Isn’t it good?”

There was a loud knock at the door. “Ah,” said Crowley, reaching for his trousers. “That’ll be the Archangel Gabriel.”

“I hung the Do Not Disturb sign.”

“I know you did. That’s how I knew it was him. He’s far too important to read _signs_.” Crowley – who could wriggle both out and in of a pair of very tight jeans with remarkable speed – sashayed towards the door. Aziraphale dived for the bathroom in search of a dressing gown. Being naked in front of Gabriel was far too much like an anxiety dream. He heard Crowley open the door.

“Oh, hi Gabriel. You’re about two minutes too late. Sorry.”

There was a brief silence, and then Gabriel spoke. “Eugh. You have _wings?_”

Aziraphale emerged from the bathroom. Crowley, wings out, fly unbuttoned, spunk still wet on his belly, was having far too much fun enjoying the archangel’s distress. “Yeah, well, you know what it’s like sometimes,” he said. “Someone gets on your prostate and your wings just go all…fwah. Know what I mean?”

“No,” said Gabriel.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale.

Gabriel blinked incredulously at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he said, looking them both up and down. “The robe. The…” He gestured vaguely to Crowley. “_Really_, Aziraphale? After all the other shit you’ve pulled, you’re going to stand there, look me in the eye and tell me that you just stuck your…effort in a demon?”

Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley’s waist. “Absolutely. Full penetration and mutual orgasms. I’m afraid this marriage is very much consummated. Which is also something of a soupy word, now I come to think of it.”

“Soupy?” said Gabriel.

“Consomme,” said Crowley.

“Exactly. Same Latin root.”

Crowley frowned. “Ministrations, consummation – what’s with all the soupy sex words?”

“I have no idea,” said Aziraphale. “It’s bizarre, isn’t it?”

Gabriel stood with his mouth open. Then closed. Then open again. And closed. The overall impression was that of an extremely well-dressed lilac goldfish. “And I thought the sushi was gross. I…I actually have no idea what to say right now,” he said.

“‘Congratulations’?” suggested Crowley.

“_No_.”

Crowley pouted. “Spoilsport.”

“You do know what you’re doing right now, don’t you?” said Gabriel, appealing to Aziraphale. “That vessel you’re polluting is property of Heaven.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Aziraphale. “This body was gifted to me by a thoughtful young antichrist who decided that I ought to have one. You may as well go around telling me what I’m allowed to do with the socks I got last Christmas, and you’ll get an equally short answer, I’m afraid. This is not a vessel. This is _my_ body and I will do whatever – and whoever – I want with it.”

“Whatever,” said Gabriel. “You married an infernal denizen so you could get him on Heaven’s spousal benefits plan. That’s fraud. There will be _consequences_, Aziraphale.”

“I don’t think so, actually,” said Aziraphale. “It’s only fraud if it’s not a genuine marriage.”

Gabriel stared at them both. “This is not…this is not…I don’t know what this is, other than extremely disgusting.”

“Well, you know,” said Aziraphale. “I like to think we have our moments. Don’t we, darling?”

“Definitely,” said Crowley. “Absolute filth. You should see what we can get up to with a squeezy bottle of Tate and Lyle’s Golden Syrup.” He grabbed a handful of Aziraphale’s bottom and grinned. “Did you seriously just watch our wedding and think we were faking it? He can’t cry on cue, you know. He’s not that good an actor.” Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but Crowley kept talking. “That was the real deal, Gabe. We’re in love. Mad, passionate, ridiculous, stupid, soupy love. You’re an angel, for fuck’s sake. Couldn’t you sense it?”

That was when Aziraphale realised he couldn’t. Gabriel couldn’t sense love. Oh, this was priceless, both vindicating and infuriating, since for as long as Aziraphale could remember he’d been kicked around and treated as defective by this purple eyed prick, who – it turned out – was actually far more defective than any of them. Possibly even more defective than Sandalphon, who was basically a sociopathic salt dispenser who just happened to be shaped like an archangel. Aziraphale leaned in, trying to feel that faint shimmer of angelic senses surrounding Gabriel. But there was nothing, just Gabriel’s revulsion as he recoiled from the smell of sex.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “That _is_ sad. An angel who can’t sense love.”

“And not just any love,” said Crowley. “Our love. Six thousand years worth of love.”

“Darling…”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Gabriel. “I’ve never even been sick before. I’m not sure I even know _how_ to be sick.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” said Aziraphale, reaching for the door knob. “Goodbye, Gabriel. I’m _so_ sorry about your…impediment and all that. Absolutely heartbreaking. I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t such a complete and utter bell-end, but I’m afraid I’m not a very good angel in that regard.”

Gabriel gagged like a being who had never gagged before. He’d turned a shade of pale chartreuse, one that was actually quite fetching alongside all the lilac. Even when he was learning how to vomit, you had to admit he had a sharp sense of colour. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he said, backing away.

“I think I rather have, actually,” said Aziraphale, and shut the door. He turned on his heel and faced Crowley, who was grinning like a maniac. “Right. Husband. Where were we?”

“Consummating,” said Crowley.

“I thought we’d done that?”

“Maybe,” said Crowley. “But it’s best to be thorough. If you want to be pedantic about it, your…loophole is still open, as it were.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, heading for the bed. “Better close that, then.”

“Sooner rather than later,” said Crowley, goosing him.

“Ooh. And to think all I had to do to get you to top was marry you.”

Crowley was all over him in a flash, growling in his ear. “I want to sink my teeth into your fat arse.”

Aziraphale purred. “Show, don’t tell, dear.”

* * *

One of the many things that Aziraphale had learned to appreciate as part of a couple was room service. He’d always loved eating out, but with room service he’d discovered all the pleasures of eating in. “I can’t believe it took me this long to realise that you can enjoy fine dining without putting on trousers. Or anything at all.” He was currently undressed for dinner in nothing but a hotel robe, the setting sun shining its rosy light on his downy bare legs and perfect feet. His cheeks were flushed and his eyelids heavy: Crowley had recently popped the cork on a third bottle of champagne, and they were both delightfully, fizzily pissed.

Aziraphale had ordered the blinis with sour cream and caviar, while Crowley, newly freed from the tyranny of maternal diet restrictions, was savouring the steak tartare.

“You look as though you’re enjoying that,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh yeah. Raw meat, raw egg, happy snake. I may not know all there is to know about cooking yet, but one thing I do know is that there is no seasoning on earth that makes things taste quite as delicious as the words Thou Shalt Not.”

There were other things on the menu that Crowley was looking forward to – oysters, delicatessen meats and lots and lots of whiskey – but he wasn’t sure if he was quite ready to discuss how he felt about that just yet. Especially since Aziraphale was giving him that tipsy, searching look that said he was half a glass away from trying to talk about his feelings. “It’s been quite an adventure, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale said, one of those open ended questions of his, the ones that sounded wittery and banal but were actually a gentle prod at some deeper meaning.

“Who says it’s over?” said Crowley. “I have a feeling that being married to you is going to be an adventure in itself.”

Aziraphale smiled and paused to admire the new band of gold on his ring finger. “I can’t believe we really did it.”

“I know. Neither can I.”

Married. Actually married to the idiot who had left him screaming into pillows, scorching his feet on consecrated ground, and stopping time at the end of the world. The adorable idiot who was so bad at seduction that he’d caused crop circles and made it rain fish and frogs, before being put on the spot and accidentally setting fire to Crowley’s head with the strength of his long neglected emotions. _My idiot. My husband._

“I have to admit,” said Crowley. “I was kind of aroused watching you go off on Gabriel. Both times, but especially the time with the vacuum cleaner. That was…raw sex.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I would really like to believe that that’s the first time the words ‘raw sex’ and ‘vacuum cleaner’ have unexpectedly collided in utterance,” he said. “But owning a secondhand bookshop in Soho has led me to suspect that it’s probably not.”

Crowley laughed, beguiled by his cleverness. “That was a hell of a plan, angel. And you say you’re not creative.”

“Well, you know…my creative impulses have previously been kept on a tight rein.”

“Yeah. Hence the angry needlepoint.”

Aziraphale polished off another blini and sat back in his chair. “It was very therapeutic, actually.”

“No, good for you. I’m serious. It’s about time you found a new hobby.”

“Even if that new hobby is embroidering things like ‘fucknuts’ onto cushions?”

“Especially if it’s that,” said Crowley, refilling his glass. “_And_ you can get back into your dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Yeah. You always said you didn’t learn to polka or waltz because you didn’t have a partner…” He gestured to himself. “Well, now you have a husband. So…”

Aziraphale went all pink and fluttery. “Darling,” he said. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. I mean, I can’t promise to be _good_, or not to mash your angelic toes into steak tartare with my massive scaly feet, but yeah. I’ll give it a go.”

“I had no idea you danced.”

Crowley shrugged. “I didn’t,” he said. “But then disco sort of happened. Also cocaine, possibly.” He licked the last of the egg yolk from his fork and sat back, belly full and head spinning pleasantly. The sun was low, streaking the Channel with vivid shades of pink, orange and scarlet, and casting a warm glow over the tasteful Regency pastels of the Honeymoon Suite. A bath next, he thought. That sounded like just the thing. A bubble bath, more champagne, and the company of a hedonistic angel who was really good at scalp massages.

“What do you think about Michael, by the way?” he said.

“What about her?”

“She knows, angel. She’s figured it out, what we did.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “She can’t touch you, Crowley. None of them can. I’ve seen to that.”

“I know that, but she’s got…connections, that one. Downstairs contacts.”

“Oh, I know. I thought of that, but I don’t think she’s said anything.”

“How do you know?” said Crowley.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but if it were common knowledge in Heaven that you weren’t as waterproof as previously believed, Gabriel would definitely have blurted out something, don’t you think?”

“Or shown up at the door with a water pistol. Yeah. You’re right. He’s not exactly subtle.”

“No, but Michael is.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, she is. She’s not going to just spaff a bunch of inside information like that in one go, is she?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “She’s going to sit on that until it’s useful to her.”

“And when will that be, do you think?”

“No idea. Could be a thousand years from now, or could be next Tuesday. Who knows?” This, Crowley knew, was Aziraphale’s way of saying he had no desire to spend his honeymoon worrying about the machinations of archangels when he could be getting drunk and fucked. Not to mention that there was a spa in this hotel and he had already made clear his intention to be pedicured, manicured, facialed, massaged, saunaed and generally pampered to within an inch of his eternal life. And he deserved it. He’d just cleaned up an Augean level shitstorm with a single, well-planned ceremony.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, once again conscious that he’d been responsible for the shitstorm in question.

“Crowley, _don’t_…”

“No, I was an idiot. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Aziraphale sighed and took his hand across the table. “I understand. Neither was I. I woke up in a bloody morgue, for Heaven’s sake. Neither of us were exactly rational actors.”

“Yeah.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. The angel had that look in his eyes again. The worrying one. The one that said a dose of heavenly compassion was about to come Crowley’s way and that Crowley – as always – would never be entirely ready for it, and if they weren’t careful somebody was going to start crying.

And that somebody was going to be Crowley. “Please stop looking at me like that,” he said, hoping to get the jump on the thing. His throat already felt lumpy. He squirmed back in his chair. “No, seriously. Stop it. It’s embarrassing. I can practically see your halo.”

“We’re _married_,” said Aziraphale, merciless as he always was when attempting to do good. “If that’s not a reason to learn how to communicate more effectively then I don’t know what is.” He reached across the table again. “Darling, please. It’s all right. You can tell me. Are you sad about the baby?”

“What baby? I was never pregnant.”

“No, but you _thought_ you were. And it did feel very real for a while…”

Yeah. Too real. So real that Crowley had plumbed depths of emotional incontinence hitherto unexplored since the last time he thought it was literally the end of the world. And worse, _he had done so while completely sober_. “Do we have to?” he said.

“Well, I think we’re going to have to talk about it at some point.”

“What if I said ‘aardvark’?” said Crowley. “Would that make you stop?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “No,” he said. “Safewords are for kinky sex. They’re not for wriggling out of talking about your feelings.”

Crowley sat back in his chair, placed his fists over both eyes and let out a short but heartfelt scream.

“Stop it,” said Aziraphale. “You’ve been through a lot, Crowley. You had all these expectations and now they’re…they’re not going to happen.”

“I wasn’t expecting. I was just…adapting.” Crowley reached for some much needed alcohol. “Can’t help it if that adaptation involved a certain amount of…love.” Oh dear. There was no more ‘practically’ about the halo. The thing was fucking glowing at him. “Please stop looking at me like that. Not unless you’re prepared to revisit the whole ‘incoherent sobbing in the face of maternal love’ episode.”

Aziraphale blushed. And dimmed somewhat. Thankfully. “Oh.”

“Yeah. See? A bit embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“I confess, I do feel a bit silly, yes.”

“You feel silly?” said Crowley. “How do you think I feel? Not only am I an idiot, but I’m doomed to drink soy lattes forever. I have to eat cheese in moderation. And I was just getting the hang of cheese, too. Especially the smelly ones.”

“I know. Poor darling. You do love your camembert.”

Crowley sighed. “It’s probably for the best, anyway,” he said. “We’d be awful parents. Have to stop drinking, for a start.”

“Oof,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah. And you’d have to stop swearing.”

“I don’t swear that much, do I?”

“You dropped the c-bomb in front of the Archangel Gabriel,” said Crowley. “I think it’s safe to say you’ve developed a taste for it. Let’s face it, angel – we are no longer remotely PG-13. We have adult tastes. Adult interests. You can’t take a baby to Glyndebourne, you know. Just because they can make noise for the entire duration of the Ring Cycle doesn’t mean the opera singers will welcome the competition.”

“No. Very true.”

“And there’s _no way_ our bookshop is baby proof.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Baby proof?”

“It’s a thing. You have to make sure all the corners are soft so they don’t bump their little heads. Bolt the bookcases to the wall in case they decide to climb.”

“Babies do that?” said Aziraphale, nibbling on a piece of ciabatta. “I thought they just lay around and gurgled?”

“They do, at first,” said Crowley. “Then they start moving around, and that’s when the trouble starts. Apparently they’re so damn keen on trying to stick their tongues into electrical sockets that they make special plug covers specifically so they can’t do that.”

“Good lord. I had no idea.”

“Well, you didn’t deal with this stuff up close and personal,” said Crowley. “You just drifted in and out and wittered on about slugs and greenfly in a fake West Country accent. _I_ was the one on the business end of the whole childcare situation. All of it. All the wet pants and bloody knees. And the tantrums. God, the tantrums. Have you ever been in the presence of someone who has way more feelings than they have adequate words for? It’s terrible. Oh, and then there’s the food, of course.”

“The food?”

"Oh yeah. They have rubbish palates, children. Mostly sugar and those mashed up chicken heads they turn into nuggets. And I didn’t learn to cook so that I could serve up baked beans and turkey fucking dinosaurs every night.”

Aziraphale nodded. “You’re quite right, dear. It would be an insult to your newfound art.”

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “Besides, you saw what happened the last time we were in charge of a kid…”

“We weren’t exactly in charge…”

“No, but I still delivered the wrong antichrist and you…you were contemplating the unthinkable, using a seventeenth century gun that fires bricks.”

Even Aziraphale had no response for that. He took a long, thoughtful sip of his champagne and finally spoke. “Maybe we should just get a cat.”

“Yeah. Let’s get a cat.”

They made love again after dinner, because Crowley had been missing having a dick, although not as much as Aziraphale had apparently missed him having one. The prospect of parenthood had been all very sweet (and terrifying), but could anything really compare to the experience of being balls deep while sucking celestial orgasms – one after the other – from the end of a moaning angel’s big toe? Afterwards they sprawled out on the crumpled white sheets and set to admiring one another with a vengeance, the way they had the first time, when Crowley had miracled his entire bedroom into the middle of Outer Mongolia so that they could hopefully get it on without causing any supernatural events. And just like the first time, Aziraphale glowed and Crowley swooned, bathing in his light, nibbling his earlobes and smiling like a fool because he was so in love. And so _married_.

“You’re even glowier than usual,” Crowley said, his fingers teasing platinum curls as Aziraphale nosed over his chest, licking and biting gently at his nipples. “I swear I can see a halo again.”

Aziraphale raised his head, eyelashes gold in the bedside light. “Well, I’m very happy,” he said. “I had no idea that making it official would be so exciting. Every time I remember that you’re my husband my heart lights up like Christmas on Oxford Street.” He rubbed the tip of his nose against Crowley’s, making small, soft contented noises in the back of his throat as their lips met once more. “Oh, we’re on our _honeymoon_.” He was radiant all over again. “Did you ever imagine we’d ever have such a thing?”

“No,” said Crowley. He’d never dared imagine anything this good, because he knew returning to reality would have been far too depressing. But here they were, drunk and snuggly and wearing nothing but the rings on their fingers. He was still wearing that pair of tiny gold wings below his wedding band. “Do you want your pinky ring back, by the way?”

“Absolutely not. That’s your engagement ring now. Unless you want something better, of course?”

Crowley smothered his imminent tears in a kiss. “No. How could there be anything better than the ring you gave me?”

“I don’t know. Something silver and ruby. Something more _you_.”

“Nah. I don’t think so. What could be more me than something that says I belong to you?”

Aziraphale did that thing with his eyes. Heart-eyes for days. Weeks. Maybe even forever. “You soppy old serpent. You’re going to make me cry.”

“If you can’t be soppy on your honeymoon, when can you?” said Crowley. “Clue’s in the name. You’re supposed to be all moony over each other.”

“Mm. Drowning in love’s sweetness, I suppose.”

“Are you?”

“Darling, always.” Aziraphale sat up and reached for his wine. “I intend to take this whole honeymoon business very seriously indeed. Brighton was just the start of it. We should do a whole tour, spoiled Gilded Age aristocrats style. Admiring each other against the backdrop of various picturesque cities. Paris. Florence. Rome.”

“Venice,” said Crowley, kissing the back of his shoulder. “_La Serenissima_. Do you remember?”

“Oh yes. Paganini.”

“He was so fucking metal. Centuries ahead of his time.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You made his violin catch fire at the end of Caprice No. 5, you awful thing.”

“It was hype!”

“It was a Stradivarius!”

“Look,” said Crowley. “They were all saying he’d sold his soul to the devil anyway, and his career was going gangbusters because of it. Besides, the man was _shredding_ up there. It was inhuman, incredible. I just…provided some stage effects. That was all.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You were so drunk,” he said. “Was that the same night when I had to fish you out of a canal?”

“I think it might have been, yeah. Oh, let’s go to Venice.”

“Mm. So crowded these days, though. And you know how we can get when we’re…affectionate. The city’s on the verge of sinking as it is, and they can probably do without the earthquakes.”

“Point,” said Crowley, and nibbled on an earlobe. The whole pregnancy scare and resultant ban on metaphysical sex had made him very keen to get rowdy with it in the way that only they could. Earth tremors, rivers flowing backwards and turning into wine, weird celestial shit where their essences mingled and things occasionally caught fire – he was in the mood to play all the old hits and some extended remixes too self-indulgent for even the twelve inch versions. “I hear Outer Mongolia is nice this time of year.”

“Mm. Always been one of my favourites.” Aziraphale stifled a yawn. “Oh, this day’s catching up with me. Weddings are surprisingly exhausting.”

They settled down to doze, with Crowley where he’d always wanted to be, spooned into the warm curve of Aziraphale’s body, with Aziraphale’s hand over his heart. Crowley lay and listened to his husband’s soft, slowing breaths, his eyelids growing heavier as he mentally drifted through all the times and places they’d been before. Rome – turning his nose up at an oyster and saying there was no way he was eating that, because it looked like somebody sneezed. But he had, and they’d laughed, him because he was so surprised to find he liked it, and Aziraphale because he couldn’t believe that he – an angel – had just successfully tempted a demon. Paris – arm in arm with a recently pardoned fashion crime, hungry for crepes. London – blacked out, bombed and ringing with the wail of air raid sirens – or Aziraphale in Antwerp, cool and pale against the backdrop of a Vermeer checkerboard floor. Looking for rare Bibles, he’d said, but of course he’d been up to good. Florence in the spring, Lancashire in the winter, two meetings in the same place in Bath, separated by centuries – high tea in the Pump Room, overlooking the Roman baths where they’d soaked their feet two thousand years ago. So many times and places, so many missed moments, and it all led back to a place they could never return to.

Perhaps. Unless…

“I’ll meet you there,” Crowley whispered, as he slid into sleep.

He was a much more accomplished dreamer than Aziraphale, having been at it for longer. Besides, he’d been here before, more times than he could count. It had been six thousand years, but he still remembered the smell of the dew, the fragrance of the big, speckled trumpet lilies, their orange throats open to the sky. He was intimately familiar with the tickle of grass on his belly, the sun on his scales, and how – when his eyes had lids once more – the light of it turned the dark behind his eyelids to warm, florid pink. He knew the sights and smells and sounds so well that it was the easiest thing in the world to reach into Aziraphale’s sleep and give him a psychic tug, like grabbing a handful of curls and pulling gently.

Aziraphale murmured and materialised on the grass beneath the apple tree. He lay sleeping, wings spread wide beneath him, feet bare, dressed as he was in the robe he’d been wearing when Crowley had first slithered up to him. Crowley leaned over him, his own wings casting shadows, and Aziraphale’s eyes flickered open.

“Hi,” said Crowley.

The angel looked up, taking in the black wings, the clear blue sky through the gaps in the apple tree above him. “You didn’t,” he said. “Did you dream this for me?”

“I had to,” said Crowley, curling up at his side. “It wasn’t going to be available at the travel agent’s, was it?”

“Oh, darling. You shouldn’t have.”

“Why not? Other couples get to go back to the place where they first met.” He flickered his tongue against the edge of Aziraphale’s ear. “Remember? I was a wily old serpent…you were on apple tree duty…”

“…in a delightful garden.”

“Yeah. And then it rained, and you put your wing over me. And there were a thousand, million reasons not to fall in love…”

“But we did anyway,” said Aziraphale, with a smile he hadn’t worn in Eden since before the moment he gave himself reason to start fretting over that damn sword.

“And we had our ups and downs, and our all-is-lost moments, but then you went down on one knee in front of your bookshop…”

“…and you said yes.”

“And here we are,” said Crowley. He grinned. “Told you it was a meet-cute.”

* * *

Aziraphale was having a good day.

It had started off in the best way, with a lovely, sticky, sleepy, cuddly fuck, pushed into the warm gap at the top of Crowley’s perfect thighs. Then there had been more cuddling, followed by eggs and bacon, a shared shower and a bookshop pleasantly devoid of customers. He’d just booked a week in Venice, the weather was no longer unbearably hot, the angels were at bay and Aziraphale was still very much in the frame of mind where remembering that he had a _husband_ now was enough to make his heart fizz with happiness.

“So when’s the wedding?” said Dimitri, when Aziraphale wandered into the Greek restaurant opposite in search of baklava. Of course Dimitri had heard about the proposal, perhaps even seen it, since it had happened right there on the doorstep.

“Oh. That,” said Aziraphale, flashing his new ring. “Already happened. It was a very short engagement.”

Dimitri raised his eyebrows. “Very short. If you weren’t both men I’d say someone was pregnant.”

“Well, _that_ really would be a thing, wouldn’t it?” Despite his relief that they weren’t about to become parents after all, there were still moments that caught him unaware and reminded him that his feelings had – for a time – been almost as complicated as Crowley’s. Like stumbling across a baby book, or opening the bathroom cabinet and seeing the prenatal vitamins he’d bought for Crowley. Crowley had continued to take them anyway, because he was convinced that they made his hair extra thick and shiny. “How are your feet?” Aziraphale asked Dimitri, once again fumbling for smalltalk in an attempt to keep his messier self in check. “I know I asked before, but I was distracted. Very rude of me. I’m terribly sorry, by the way.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Dimitri. “And they’re better, thanks. Better than ever, and nobody knows how.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s a medical miracle,” he said, dropping a box of baklava into a paper bag. “I got the diabetes in check, but it was too late for my little toes. Permanent nerve damage, they said. Then they started to go black and the doctors were saying they’d have to be chopped off.”

“Oh dear.”

“They were dead. Dead as doornails. I couldn’t feel them. And they smelled dead, too. That’s why the doctors couldn’t figure it out.”

“Figure out what?”

Dimitri stepped out from behind the counter and kicked off his slippers, revealing ten perfectly healthy, hairy toes.

“Well, I never,” said Aziraphale.

“I know. Even cured my ingrown toenail. And that’s not all. I go back to the doctor and he says my insulin levels are like those of a twenty-five year old marathon runner.”

“What did you do? Did you eat something different? New exercise regime?”

Dimitri put his shoes back on. “Not a damn thing,” he said. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t bring dead tissue back to life. Even the consultant couldn’t understand it. Said it was as if someone had waved a magic wand and raised my toes from the dead.”

“Good Lord. When did all this happen?”

“Twenty-third of May,” said Dimitri. “I remember exactly because I was due to go in for the chop the following Monday. _Something_ happened that night. Something strange and wonderful. You know Mrs Gosling down at the Cancer Research Shop?”

“Oh yes,” said Aziraphale, who knew Mrs Gosling all too bloody well, thank you.

“Well, she said that on that night all the hanging baskets outside the shop flowered all at once. Lobelias, petunias, even the late geraniums that don’t usually flower until July. And do you know what else she said?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“She said she heard angels singing.”

“Did she now?” said Aziraphale, trying to remember what he’d been up to on the night of the twenty-third of May. The date seemed to stick in his head for some reason. Had there been alcohol involved? There usually was, whenever he sang. He wasn’t much of a singer, as angels went. They had always shunted him to the back of the choir on the grounds that he was somehow too enthusiastic about it, so these days he confined his efforts to the bathroom, accompanied by lots of red wine and Puccini on the gramophone.

He wandered back to the bookshop, trying to mentally retrace his steps.

There was a cat on the counter, as there often was these days. Neither he nor Crowley were entirely sure where she’d come from, but one day – as soon as they decided to get a cat – she had just shown up, a chubby, nameless tortoiseshell who seemed to answer most often to the title of Madam. She raised her head when Aziraphale came in, but almost immediately slumped back into her bored doze. She tolerated him, but adored Crowley, who had been worried – given his misadventures with animals over the centuries – that a cat would hate him. Madam had dispelled his fears by recognising him as something of a kindred spirit. Whenever he was downstairs she followed him around the bookshop like a dog, rubbing against his calves and leaving brindled hairs stuck to his tight black jeans.

Aziraphale took the baklava upstairs to the kitchen, where Crowley was making _coq au vin_ for dinner. “Have you seen my notebook?”

Crowley curled his lip. “Not the sex notebook?”

“Yes, the sex notebook. Don’t tell me it hasn’t come in handy in the past, because it has.”

“Why? Please don’t tell me you think _you’re_ pregnant this time?”

Aziraphale fetched the notebook from the bedroom and came back to find Crowley still grumbling.

“I honestly don’t know what you get out of it,” he was saying, while chopping up potatoes. “We’re newlyweds. We should be taking it for granted that we’re boning down every hour God sends.”

“Humour me,” said Aziraphale, rifling through the pages. “Anyway, it’s getting full.” He sighed. “And it’s such a lovely notebook, too. You bought it for me. Do you remember?”

“I’ll get you another one,” said Crowley. “Just the same. You can fill that one, too. And another. Then you can have a whole sex library.”

“Aw.”

“No, not _aw_. That’s deeply weird.”

“Well, maybe I _am_ deeply weird,” said Aziraphale, dipping into the wine before Crowley polished off the bottle. “And perhaps it’s high time that I just embraced it. I’m an angel who is married to a demon, for goodness sake. I enjoy sweary needlepoint, ballroom dancing, I might be a Libra, and I’m almost definitely a drunk.” He found the entry for the twenty-third of May and realised why it had rung a bell. “Oh, and I might have accidentally resurrected the neighbour’s toes. Or pancreas. Is it the pancreas that goes when you have diabetes?”

Crowley gave him a long, unblinking stare. “Angel, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I was talking to Dimitri,” said Aziraphale. “You know…with the delicious baklava, and the type two diabetes.”

“That’ll be the baklava,” said Crowley. “Delicious, but deadly. What about him?”

“They were going to amputate his dead toes on the Monday. Which would have been the twenty-sixth of May.”

“Right. And?”

“They didn’t amputate his toes,” said Aziraphale. “On account of them not being dead any more.” He pointed out the entry in his notebook. “The twenty-third was a Friday. You cooked me a superb four course meal, changed sex, performed the sixty-nine position in mid-air…”

“…and supposedly got pregnant with an eldritch abomination,” said Crowley. “Holy shit. So you _did_ perform one of your accidental miracles that night?”

“Looks like, doesn’t it?” said Aziraphale.

“Oh my God.”

“No. Just me. Apparently he heard angels singing—”

“—screaming,” said Crowley. “You were definitely screaming. Not singing.”

“Well, whatever I was doing, the circulation immediately returned to his toes.”

“Please,” said Crowley. “This isn’t news. You’ve always had a marked effect on my circulatory system. Especially when it comes to making the blood flow downwards.”

“Naughty.”

“Demon. Naughty is my nature.”

“Not all of it. You can be very nice when you don’t want to be.”

There were still roses growing in the windowbox, the deep dark red ones that had sprung up on the night of the twenty-third, the night Crowley had figured out how to give Aziraphale a taste of what he’d been begging for. It seemed foolish now, in retrospect, and Aziraphale was ashamed of the way he’d pestered about it. He’d been so desperate for bigger and better and more passionate ways to express their love, so fixated on sex that he’d forgotten the biggest moments of love often came in the smallest of packages, like a thoughtless kiss on the inside of his wrist as Crowley snuggled down to sleep in his arms, or seeing the gleam of gold on Crowley’s third finger while he peeled cloves of garlic. Love was the desperate prayer when he was alone, the scouring the shelves in Boots to find the right prenatal vitamins, or the sheer absurdity of threatening an archangel with a vacuum cleaner and somehow – ineffably – getting away with it. It was small and huge and terrifying and stupid and almost as absolutely bloody gorgeous as Crowley himself. Here was another one of the ironies of their strange existence – that Aziraphale, the being of love, had been the one who maybe had the most to learn about love after all.

Well, maybe it was time to learn some new things. And not just angry needlepoint.

“So,” he said, sidling around the kitchen island. “What are you up to with those potatoes?”

“Ah,” said Crowley. “You’ll like this. Duchesse.”

“Which is?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want to know how food happens?” he said. “You said it would kill the magic for you.”

“Or,” said Aziraphale. “It might turn out to be a new kind of magic in itself.”

Crowley looked surprised, but pleased, and that was a new and potent kind of magic, too. “Okay,” he said, dropping the potatoes into a pan. “We’re going to boil them, then we’re going to put them through a ricer, then whip them up with cream, egg yolks and lots of garlic butter.”

“And that’s why you’re peeling garlic?”

“Yep. We’re going to roast these cloves with some olive oil, take the raw taste off the garlic. Do you want to help peel?”

“I’ll have a go.”

“Wait there,” said Crowley, with a curious little smile. He disappeared into the wine room and came back a moment later with a folded white linen apron in his hands. “Ta da,” he said, as he shook it out, revealing a gold angel wing motif on the front. “Early Christmas present.”

Aziraphale stood, as breathless and fluttering as a debutante presented with diamonds, as Crowley tied the apron strings at the back. Such a small thing, but it spoke volumes about how long – and how patiently – Crowley had been waiting for him to join him in the kitchen. As time went, it was a mere drop in the ocean of time Crowley had been waiting for Aziraphale to catch him up, but it still meant so much.

Crowley showed him how to peel garlic by crushing the cloves under the heavy handle of the knife. He showed him how to chop mushrooms and by the third or fourth Aziraphale felt like he was getting the hang of it, although of course his efforts with the knife didn’t come close to the staccato blur by which Crowley could turn a chestnut mushroom into a series of thin, uniform slices in seconds. They fried bacon and sipped wine and talked nonsense, and this time Aziraphale managed to be in the kitchen without thinking wistfully of that mental picture of Crowley with a baby in his arms.

“Is marriage everything you thought it would be?” he asked.

“No,” said Crowley. “It’s more. Much, much more.” His slow, adoring smile shifted into something more mischievous. “The benefits package alone…”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what? I’m just saying. Isn’t it nice not having to worry about what Heaven thinks?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “Of course. It’s wonderful, but…”

Crowley narrowed an eye. “But what? Don’t start this again, worrying about consequences. After everything we’ve been through…”

“No, I wasn’t,” said Aziraphale. “I’m not worried about Heaven, I promise. It’s just…well…you said it yourself: your lot don’t just send rude notes.”

Crowley made a loud noise of exasperation and slithered off his barstool. “Fuck them,” he said. “Seriously. Do you think I haven’t lived my whole life without the constant fear of things going all sticky toffee pudding? Believe me, I’m used to it by now.” He wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and took his hand. They’d recently managed to learn a simple waltz step. “Yes, Hell will probably do what Hell does, because that’s Hell for you, but in the meantime…” He hummed into the side of Aziraphale’s neck. “…while there’s moonlight, and music…”

“…and love and romance…” Aziraphale tried gamely to follow the steps, but Crowley wasn’t used to leading. “Which is _lovely_, darling, but you’re…”

“Oh shit.” Crowley stepped back. “Sorry. Was I on your toes?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Sorry. I was trying to do a whole thing there, but…”

“…no, I appreciate the thought.”

“We’ll figure out the dance part eventually,” said Crowley.

“Oh, no doubt,” said Aziraphale, curling his freshly bruised toes in his slipper. “We’re slow, but we get there in the end.”

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * He totally did.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always for reading! This is a big fic, and will update weekly. Thank you so much for all your comments, and you can also talk to me on [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/jesswhitecroft)


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